


The Only Boy in the Room

by nagi_schwarz



Series: The Only Boy In The Room [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-24
Updated: 2013-07-24
Packaged: 2018-05-26 05:49:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 11
Words: 49,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6226393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nagi_schwarz/pseuds/nagi_schwarz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>the story of Sam Winchester, his secret hobby, and his quest to find something that's his - not Dad, not hunting, just his. When he was twelve, another hunter taught him to dance, and it was surprisingly fun (and handy in a fight). When he was thirty, his brother disappeared and his world collapsed around his ears, and he fumbled to reclaim the one thing in his life that kept him centered. This is the story of both of those facets of Sam, and some of the facets - and people - who came in between.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Super thanks to [](http://geckoholic.livejournal.com/profile)[geckoholic](http://geckoholic.livejournal.com/) for the amazing artwork and support, and from [](http://jmsabat.livejournal.com/profile)[jmsabat](http://jmsabat.livejournal.com/) for being a beta, for my girl E for helping me come up with a title.
> 
> Some dialogue straight from 4x10, underager working as a temp in the sex industry (but no prostitution), show-level violence, OFCs, OMCs, spoilers up through 8x01 (if anyone hasn't seen season 8), gratuitous use of technical dance terms.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set pre-series. Teen!Chesters. Pastor Jim POV.

Jim was glad to see the tail lights on that old Jag fading into the night. Amanda Quince – Widow Quince, to those in The Life – was a force to be reckoned with. Whether she belonged to the Jedi or the Dark Side was still up for debate. How she’d managed to work with John Winchester without one of them ending up in traction was, Jim thought, an answer to his repeated prayer over the last month.

Sam and Dean stood beside him on the front porch of the parish church, Sam clutching a book Widow Quince had given him and Dean affecting a rebel pose.

“It’s a nice enough car, for a Euro import,” Dean said loftily. At sixteen, he was eager to prove himself a man just like his father. John had very strong opinions about American-made cars.

“Will we ever see her again?” Sam asked.

Jim said, “I hope, for your sake, you never have to.”

Sam hugged the book to his chest. “I liked her. She was nice.”

“Yeah,” Dean agreed. “Nice to look at.” He glanced down at Sam for his concurrence, but Sam just rolled his eyes.

“You’re just bitter because she kicked you out of the room while she was dancing.” Sam straightened up. “You cheapen everything when it comes to women, you know that?” And he turned and stomped back inside of the church.

Dean raised his eyebrows, watched his brother go. “When did my little Sammy become a feminist?”

“Leave your brother be,” Jim said mildly. “Now come on - you don’t want Sam and your father to eat all the bacon, do you?”

John was laconic during the meal, so from one side of Jim’s rickety kitchen table he received nothing but grunts. Dean wished, idly, he’d been allowed to go along for the hunt, to see what the famous Widow Quince was made of, and John shook his head. Jim asked Sam what he’d learned in his reading that day - he’d assigned himself a summer reading list - and Sam enthused about Nathaniel Hawthorne’s symbolism in one of his short stories. After supper, John instructed Sam and Dean to help Jim wash up, and then he retreated to the front porch with a bottle of whiskey.

Jim could sympathize. Widow Quince, for all her brilliance and beauty, was as stubborn as a Winchester.

Sam was up to his elbows in soapy water when Dean started in on him. For being such a fine hunter, Dean wasn’t always the sharpest tool in the shed. Or maybe he just had a blind spot when it came to his little brother, because he had completely misread why Sam had spent so much time following Widow Quince around.

“Hey Sammy, I bet the Widow danced for you a whole lot, huh? Gave you something to think about.” Dean made an obscene gesture with one hand.

Jim cleared his throat; Dean didn’t even look guilty, just snapped his dishtowel at Sam.

Sam dodged deftly, scowled. “Even if she did dance for me, I respect her for her skill, not because it was something tawdry.”

Tawdry. Jim hadn’t heard that word in a long time. Then again, Sam was reading Hawthorne.

“Yeah, I bet she was _skilled_.” Dean waggled his eyebrows.

“If you must know,” Sam said, resuming scrubbing a pot, “belly dancing is an ancient art form useful in increasing strength, agility, and stamina.”

“Oooh. _Stamina_.”

Sam flicked soapy water at Dean. “Stop talking about her like that.”

Dean looked down at his damp shirt. Annoyance crossed his face momentarily, and then it vanished behind a mask of mischief. “Talking about her like what?” He knew exactly like what.

Jim stood in the doorway, ready to intervene.

“Widow Quince is a hunter,” Sam said. “And a good one.”

“I’m sure she was great with a gun. You let her try your gun, Sammy?” Again with the eyebrows.

Sam looked affronted. “I’m twelve and she’s, like, thirty. Also, I am pretty sure she could kick your ass in a fight.”

Widow Quince was actually barely twenty-five, and she looked younger than her age, but her authoritative manner often gave her wisdom beyond her years, as did the grief in her eyes. She’d lost her spouse, just like John.

Dean raised his eyebrows. “Whatever. So she knows some super creepy lore. Dad or Pastor Jim could have dug it out of a book.”

Jim couldn’t have, which was why he’d called her in the first place, but he said nothing, watching the brothers carefully. They’d been cooped up at his place for a long time, longer than they usually stayed in one place, and their patience with the situation - and each other - was wearing thin.

“She’s an intelligent woman,” Sam said. “She’s a lawyer. She graduated from Stanford, which is an excellent institution.”

Sometimes that boy sounded like he was reciting out of a textbook. Maybe he was. It was good thing he was John’s son, or else he’d probably get himself bullied half to death at school, making comments like that. Chances were, of course, he barely spoke up at school. A good hunter knew how to go unnoticed.

“She’s just a cheap dancer in the end.” Dean wiggled his hips and looked nothing like a dancer and entirely like a fool. Jim continued to hold his tongue.

Sam flicked water at Dean again. “She’s not cheap. Back in the day, the best warriors were also the best dancers. Skill in dancing was a sign of excellent physical condition.”

Dean hollowed out to avoid the splash of water, snapped his towel at Sam. “Whatever. Guys who dance are –”

“What?” Sam asked. “Something else derogatory and feminizing?” He turned and faced Dean. Water streamed down his arms and puddled on the floor. Jim winced. If that didn’t get mopped up fast, someone was going to slip and fall.

Dean stepped closer to his little brother, towered over him. “Why are you so defensive of the broad? Because she gave you a book?” He looked Sam up and down with an intensity that would have made most non-hunter grown men look away. “You spent an awful lot of time locked up with her.” The corner of his mouth curled up in an expression too cruel to be a smile. “She teach _you_ how to dance?”

“Men as well as women belly dance,” Sam said haughtily, but just like Dean, Jim had caught the blush creeping up Sam’s neck.

Dean looked delighted. “She teach you how to shake it, Sammy?”

Sam didn’t say anything.

Dean twirled the dishtowel with one hand, ready to snap it. “I always knew all that reading and geekery would turn you into a girl, but Samuel Winchester, this is an all new low.”

“Shut up,” Sam said.

Dean smirked. “Make me.”

Sometimes they behaved like the children John rarely let them be.

“Boys,” Jim began.

Dean struck first. The towel snapped so loudly it must have drawn blood. Sam didn’t flinch. He caught Dean’s wrist, dragged him forward, and dunked him headfirst in the sink. Then he shot across the kitchen, straight for the back door.

“Dean!” Jim started for the sink, and Dean came up spluttering. He spun around, lunged at Sam. Sam ducked, dodged around so he had Dean’s back. Dean turned with him, and it was like a bizarre little dance, the ducking and weaving. Jim watched them move, wary of the water on the floor. If he timed it right, he could jump in the middle of them and restrain one, most likely Dean. But so far they hadn’t really hurt each other, and after being cooped up for so long, they needed to burn off a little energy.

If John asked, it was impromptu hand-to-hand training.

Dean was smart, trying to back Sam into a corner, but they’d been sparring too long, knew each other’s combinations and rhythms too well. And Sam had been paying better attention to the wet floor.

Dean lunged. Sam stepped back, wheeled around. Dean moved to follow, just  
as Sam had planned. Dean planted a foot on the wet tile and went down like a sack of potatoes. He at least had the instinct to slap out for a break-fall.

Jim started toward him, but Dean shook his head, winded. He gasped out a raspy, “I’m fine,” and Sam relaxed.

That was his mistake. Dean flipped up onto his feet and lashed out with a one-two jab-reverse. Jim watched, horrified, as Sam was about to get his jaw broken.

But Sam was gone. Dean froze mid-punch. Jim admired his form for a moment before he realized what was missing from the tableau. Sam. Jim blinked. Sam was bent backward at the waist at nearly a ninety-degree angle, and he was frozen there, holding himself horizontal.

Jim stared. Dean stared. Sam bent at the knees, dropped flat on the ground.

Dean lunged for him, not to attack him this time but to save him. “Sam!”

Sam lay there, utterly still. Then, in one smooth motion, he rolled up till he was sitting on his haunches.

“Dodged you,” he said, and he grinned.

Dean sank against the nearest counter. “What the hell was that?”

Sam stood up and dusted himself off, expression triumphant. “Dance move that Widow Quince taught me. It’s called the Turkish Drop.” He sauntered back over to the sink. “Aren’t you going to help me finish the dishes?”

Jim shook his head, made his way to the pantry for a mop to clean up the spill. He tossed Dean a towel from the laundry room so the kid could dry his hair. Dean accepted it with thanks, scrubbed off his hair quickly, and then resumed drying the dishes.

“You going to stop making fun of me now?” Sam asked.

“No,” Dean said. “But that was pretty cool.”

*

True to his word, Dean mocked Sam mercilessly for the rest of the summer. Sam, for the most part, was placid in response, which only made Dean torment him more.

Truth was, Jim knew more about belly dancing than he’d care to admit, and not just from his association with Widow Quince, though she was always willing to educate people about her ways. The Turkish Drop was a damn tough move, something usually only experienced dancers could pull off. That Sam had learned it in the few short weeks he’d had with the Widow Quince meant he’d either been damned determined to learn that one move or he was what amounted to some kind of dance prodigy. Jim assumed the former until one day he spotted Sam, who thought he was alone, wandering around the study with a scimitar balanced on his head and shimmying his hips experimentally.

Sword dances were considered a more acceptable form of male dancing, although John Winchester probably wouldn’t consider any belly dancing acceptable for one of his sons to be doing. Well, as long as the kid could use the sword in a fight, too, Jim wouldn’t say anything to John.

*

Summer drew to a close, and John found a new hunt and a new school for the boys. While John did one final weapons check before they hit the road, Jim supervised the boys’ packing, which mostly meant trying to convince Sam he didn’t need that many books and trying, discretely, to deprive Dean of the filthier of his skin magazines.

“Hey, Dean?” Sam folded his shirts one-foot square, just like his father. Jim folded his shirts the same way; it was an old military habit.

Dean liked to roll his t-shirts up and pack them down as tight as possible with the rest of his clothes. “What?”

“What do you have that’s all your own?” Sam’s tone was earnest, inquisitive.

Dean arched an eyebrow. “You making a play for my Metallica tapes or something?”

“No,” Sam said. “I didn’t mean - not something tangible. Something intangible. Something that’s just Dean, not Dad, not hunting. Just you.”

Dean paused in the rolling of his shirts. He looked baffled. “What?”

“Just curious.” Sam averted his gaze and started folding Dean’s shirts for lack of something better to do.

“Well.” Dean looked down at himself. “I...have this pendant.” He patted the black cord at his collarbone for emphasis.

Sam frowned. “That was a gift from me to you. From Bobby, sort of. It’s hunting related, even if we don’t know what it is.”

“True. I guess I have my music.”

“That’s Dad’s.” Sam looked distinctly unamused.

“Cars. I have cars. I love cars! I’m a mechanic, just like Dad.” Dean’s smile was winning. He’d used that to con his way into a house on more than one hunt to get information.

“Yeah, just like _Dad_ ,” Sam said.

Dean threw his hands up. “I don’t know what you want to hear, then, Sam.”

“I want to know something that’s you. All you,” Sam said.

Dean bit his lip, lowered his gaze. Then he glanced up. “I got you. I’m a big brother, and that’s all me.”

Jim knew he shouldn’t have been privy to this rare instance of Dean’s vulnerability and honesty, but he was glad he was. Sam’s smile, at just that moment, would have turned night into day.

Dean cleared his throat, clearly embarrassed by his confession. “What about you, Sammy? What have you got that’s all you?”

“Besides you?” Sam asked. “I’m not sure yet.” But when he tossed the book Widow Quince had given him into his duffel bag, it landed with a suspicious metallic clink, like tiny brass cymbals.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Teen!Chesters. Sam and Dean are left to fend for themselves after John takes off on a new hunt, leaving Dean to finish the current hunt. Sam fends for Dean and himself when Dean's hunt goes awry.
> 
> Outsider POV.
> 
> Underage Sam as temp in the sex-worker industry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Super thanks to [](http://geckoholic.livejournal.com/profile)[geckoholic](http://geckoholic.livejournal.com/) for the amazing artwork and support, and from [](http://jmsabat.livejournal.com/profile)[jmsabat](http://jmsabat.livejournal.com/) for being a beta, for my girl E for helping me come up with a title.

 

 

Weeknights at The Centurion drew a pretty thin crowd, a shallow mix of nervous, closeted businessmen getting their middle-of-the-night kicks and old, grizzled regulars like Hank who were tired of the dance club scene. He had about as much a chance with the pretty boys twirling around the poles on stage as a snowball did in the flames of hell, like those other men who were still too self-deluding to stop dreaming. Macho Mondays featured the prize dancers in ridiculous, historically inaccurate but still fascinating leather gladiator get-ups. Hank was a hospital janitor, but he wasn’t stupid, and he knew his history. The redheaded twink onstage using a short sword as an obscene prop was impressively flexible, but the weapon he was carrying was more appropriate for a Celtic raider than a Roman soldier.

Hank sighed and plunked his empty beer bottle down on the bar. He signaled the bartender – Julius – and stepped out for a smoke. Julius would keep his seat free. Hank liked to have the best vantage of the stage so he could see all three dancers at once, compare and contrast. Either his hormones must have up and died or he was just getting too old for this scene, because he was critiquing the historical accuracy of the props instead of enjoying miles upon miles of supple, young flesh.

Outside, the acid-house beat of the dance music – that certainly wasn’t Roman – faded behind a layer of smoke, a heavy metal door, and two mountainous men who, naturally, answered to Tiny. Hank shuffled the requisite twenty-five feet away from the door into the parking lot and fumbled in his pockets for his pack of Pall Malls. He popped a cancer stick between his lips and then had to go on another hunt for his lighter. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted movement, and he froze, watching, assessing. Some of the local skinheads liked to hang around and give the club’s patrons a hard time. Homophobic little pricks.

A boy was pacing back and forth in the parking lot, cell phone pressed to his ear. He was tall, lanky, and Hank liked the lines of his legs immediately. The kid wore ragged jeans, dirty sneakers, and a flannel button-down shirt that looked like it had belonged to half a dozen lumberjacks before him.

“I’m sorry, Amanda,” he said quietly. “But I have to do this. I know it’s selling out, that this isn’t what it’s about, but I don’t have a choice. It’s about family.” He shook his head, and he looked like he was overdue for a haircut. Under the golden gleam of a street lamp, the boy had narrow, sharp features. There was something to the line of his cheekbones, the angle of his jaw, that made him undeniably pretty.

Hank felt, for the first time in a long time, embarrassed for looking at a boy so intently. The boy was fully clothed, to boot.

“We don’t take charity,” the boy said flatly. Whoever was on the other end of the line said something that made him close his eyes, card a hand through his hair. “I’ll be fine - I know what I’m doing. Maybe I _have_ done this before. I’m sorry.” And he hung up, shoved the phone into his pocket. With a backpack hanging off one shoulder, he looked like an ordinary high school kid.

The green metal door behind him swung open, and Mr. Terrence, the club’s manager, stepped out. Two of the giant Tiny men loomed behind him.

“You wanted to see me?” He looked the boy up and down with nothing short of contempt.

The boy straightened up. “Yes. My name is Elyon.”

That gave Terrence pause, and he looked the boy up and down again, this time assessing. “Really?”

The boy lifted his chin. “You know who I am and what I can do. I’m here to negotiate for performance space.”

Hank slid back into the shadows and listened, intrigued.

“You’ll have to give me at least a day to get the word out,” Terrence said. “How many days were you looking to perform?”

“Three. Starting on Wednesday.”

“Three. In a row? You know the weekend draws bigger crowds.”

“I know.” The boy, who had sounded tired and guilty moments before, was cool and confident now. “But it will be three days in a row, starting Wednesday, which means you have tonight to start getting the word out.”

Hank wracked his brain. Elyon. Where did he know that name from?

“Okay,” Terrence said.

“I perform alone. No one touches me or my tips. And I get eighty percent of the door take once you break even,” the boy said.

Hank almost swallowed his own cigarette in an attempt to stifle laughter. Terrence was notoriously tightfisted with his profits and laissez-faire with his boys, which was why The Centurion was popular and had a high employee turnover rate.

But Terrence said, “Fine, but I get thirty percent of the door take, and you work the floor after.”

“You get forty, and I don’t work the floor ever.”

Any moment now, one of the Tiny men was going to toss the kid out on his ear.

Again, Terrence said, “Fine.”

“Clear me the main stage at midnight. I dance alone,” the boy said.

“Of course.” Terrence was practically toadying up to the kid. What the hell? Moments later, Hank heard the creak of the metal door opening, then closing, and he saw the boy stride off into the darkness. He was a brave soul, wandering around alone like that, as pretty as he was.

Hank finished off his cigarette and meandered back inside the club. The gladiator had given way to a pair of boys in togas who were finding creative ways to unwrap each other. Hank resumed his spot at the bar and Julius slid another drink over to him.

“Hey, Julius, you ever heard of Elyon?” Hank asked.

Julius paused, raised his eyebrows. “I’ve heard of him. Why?”

“Heard his name floating around is all. Who is he?”

“Apparently the boy puts on one heck of a show. He’s a solo act, independent contractor, no ties to a particular joint. I’ve heard he can do stuff with his body that’s like. Inhuman. But also hot.” Julius shrugged. He wasn’t too impressed by anything the boys on stage did anymore.

Hank glanced over his shoulder at the stage. The two dancers, now toga-less, were showing off some impressive strength on the poles. It couldn’t have been easy, holding themselves up on what amounted to giant metal pencils.

“I’m not sure inhuman is hot.” Hank wrinkled his nose.

“Tell that to all the hipster kids who read vampire porn,” Julius said. Like Hank, he was a closet academe, but instead of history his taste was literature. “I’d take a break and watch Elyon take the stage, though. See if he lives up to the hype.”

Hank nodded. “Fair enough.” He took a long pull of his beer, watched one of the dancers nearly botch a pole dismount, and seriously considered going back to his cramped little apartment. At least there it was quiet, and he had a biography of Winston Churchill waiting for him.

He was getting old if a pair of pretty twinks like the ones onstage couldn’t get his motor running.

*

The swing shift at the hospital was ideal, because Hank could hang out at The Centurion till ungodly hours - or read to ungodly hours, not that he’d ever admit that to anyone but Julius - and then sleep in as late as he wanted and still get a full day’s work for a full day’s pay. Pushing a mop or a broom wasn’t intellectually stimulating, but it kept him in rent and books and drinks at The Centurion, and at the rate Hank was going, he really couldn’t expect more from life.

He liked the intensive care floor because most of the patients were unconscious. On the geriatric floor there was crankiness and flung bedpans, but here, there was the absence of human noise and the forgettable background of beeping machines. Hank was sweeping up a spilled tray courtesy of a new and clumsy orderly when, out of the corner of his eye, he glimpsed long legs, worn flannel, and floppy brown hair. The kid from the club last night. No way. Hank kept his head down, kept sweeping. He didn’t need anyone outing him to his homophobic boss. Judging by what he’d overheard of the kid’s phone conversation, the kid probably didn’t want anyone outing him either.

Under the harsh fluorescence and daylight, the kid didn’t look much older than sixteen. He still had narrow shoulders and smooth skin, probably didn’t shave much more than twice a week. But there was something to the way he carried himself that reminded Hank of some of the guys he’d served with in ‘Nam.

The kid – Elyon obviously wasn’t his real name – passed the nurse’s station and gave the head nurse a quick nod. She waved him on by, and he headed into room 124. Hank had been in there earlier cleaning and seen a young man with a tube down his throat, unconscious amid machines and looking pretty badly banged up. The man didn’t look nearly old enough to be the kid’s father.

Hank’s curiosity got the better of him, and he finished sweeping quickly, threw away the remnants of some test samples gone wrong. After a quick scurry to the cleaning cupboard for a buffing pole to rub black scuff marks off the linoleum floor, Hank took up post outside the door, listening and trying to look like he wasn’t.

“Don’t worry, Dean,” the kid was saying. Hank now knew the unconscious man’s name, but not the kid’s. “Dad’ll finish the job soon, and once you wake up, we can hit the road. I’ll have more than enough money to get you meds. We’ll go somewhere safe – maybe Pastor Jim’s, or Bobby’s – and you can rest up. I got this, okay? Don’t worry about me. Just – please. Wake up.”

Hank had overheard more than his fair share of tearful bedside confessions and monologues posing as dialogues. The kid sounded a little choked up, but he was determined, that was for sure. Dean was his older brother, then, and probably usually did the looking out that needed to be done. What had happened to Dean? And where was their father? Hank didn’t think the kid was legal yet, but sometimes it was hard to tell, given how hard the dancers at the clubs worked to look illegal.

“I got this, Dean,” the kid said again. “On our own, no handouts. Now open your eyes, dammit.”

There was no answer from Dean. His eyes were, like most of the patients on the floor, still closed.

The nurses at the station were starting to look at Hank askance, because the five-foot radius outside Dean’s door was scuff-free, but nowhere else was. Hank moved away from the door and continued buffing. In ten minutes he could take a break, make some headway on his book.

*

At The Centurion that night, Terrence started spreading the word, and the regulars were buzzing about Elyon. Posters had gone up; a couple of boys in Togas – it was Toga Tuesday – handed out flyers at the door. There were drink specials on the nights Elyon was performing. Terrence was expecting to draw in quite the crowd. There were no pictures of Elyon himself on the posters, just his name and _three nights only_.

Hank wondered how often the kid had had to dance for money, that he had the reputation he did. Maybe his older brother Dean was chronically or terminally ill or something.

“Has anyone actually seen this guy dance?” Hank asked over his third beer.

Julius shrugged. “Everyone only seems to know a guy who knows a guy, but that’s enough to bring in the crowds.”

Several out-and-proud college boys were at a table in the corner, cooing over an Elyon poster and making lots of noise about calling all their friends to come to the show. Hank was out, more or less, but he wouldn’t call himself proud as much as uncaring. He wasn’t one to wear rainbow pins and walk in parades, but he knew what he liked and he refused to apologize for it. He just wasn’t going to wear skintight jeans and body glitter and risk getting jumped by skinheads on the way to the club either.

“You know we’ll get a whole load of ladies in here those three nights,” Julius said. “I better brush up on my extra-girly drinks.”

Hank raised an eyebrow, glanced over at the rainbow brigade who were giggling and fanning themselves over a fruity array of umbrella-adorned beverages.

“They get girlier than that?”

“They do.” Julius grimaced and went to answer a call at the other end of the bar.

Hank glanced over his shoulder at the trio of blonds clad in see-through togas on the stage. He threw down enough bills to cover his tab, then headed home to his Churchill biography.

*

Hank had fallen asleep sitting up in bed, his book open and mashed against his chest, neck at a funny angle, so when he finally stumbled into work, it was with a neck-ache and a sour expression. Most of the nurses avoided him, but someone was on his side that day, because he was assigned to the ICU floor again. Blessed quiet was exactly what he needed until the cobwebs from the night before cleared out of his skull.

The same stupid orderly as yesterday had dropped another tray of samples, so Hank armed himself with a mop and disinfectant, marked off the spill zone with yellow caution signs, and set to work. He really needed to find something else to do with his free time. Apart from Terrence, he and Julius were probably the oldest regulars at the bar (not counting the old businessmen in suits who came in with wads of cash to ease their guilt while they got furtive spurts of watching glittery twinks slithering up and down poles). That Hank was bored half the time meant he obviously needed a change. Maybe he'd join a book club. Then he wouldn't fall asleep with repetitive techno music ringing in his ears. Some nights he thought, in a fog of shocking self-pity, the music was worse than the echo of machine gun fire from his nights in the jungles of Vietnam.

Hank was startled out of his sullen musings by a familiar voice - the kid's voice. He was reading aloud, and not in English. In fact, it sounded an awful lot like the Latin the priests spoke when they droned on and on in Mass. Hank hadn't been to Mass since he'd been drafted for Vietnam, and that Latin was half the reason why. Was the kid praying over his brother or something?

Hank paused in his scrubbing and tiptoed toward Dean's room, peeked just around the edge of the door frame. The kid was sitting beside Dean's bed, backpack at his feet. Several textbooks – calculus, biology – were at the foot of the bed. The kid had curled himself into one of those cheap plastic chairs somehow, long legs folded beneath him, and he was reading from a battered paperback. According to the title, it was Caesar's _Gallic Wars_. In the original Latin.

“You know,” the kid said conversationally to his unconscious brother, “most of this is crap. Not that Caesar wasn't a great military strategist, but his reasons for going to war? Vengeance against the Celts? Crap. Sure, the Celts had razed Rome and demanded a ransom, but it was paltry - only a thousand gold pieces. Granted, the Romans were only minting silver at the time, but those Celts? They wore gold everything - in their hair, around their necks, hell - they even wore it in their clothes. So did Caesar go after them to restore Rome's lost honor? No. He went after them for their gold mines. As soon as Caesar got home, Rome started minting gold again. Coincidence? I think not.”

Hank's pulse stuttered. Here was a pretty boy who liked history, who was smart enough to read it in the original Latin and analyze it, synthesize the real story going on between the lines. But the kid curled up in the chair looking exhausted and a little sad, he didn't look like the sort of person who was worth all the hype Hank had seen at the club last night.

The kid cleared his throat and raised the book, started reading again. He read fluidly, naturally, like he could actually understand what he was reading instead of just sounding the letters out as he went.

Hank went to turn away, go back to the foul-smelling contamination, when he heard someone say, in a voice hoarse from disuse,

“Your pronunciation sucks. An initial ‘i’ is pronounced like a ‘j’, dumbass.”

The kid paused, then said, “This is classical Latin. What you're thinking of is medieval Latin.”

“What's the difference, Geekboy?”

“Oh, I don't know, several centuries?” The kid's voice was heavy with sarcasm, but there was an undercurrent of fondness.

“Whatever. How long was I out, Sammy?”

“It's Sam,” the kid said, and Hank had another name. Sam and Dean. Short, spondaic, masculine. Julius would approve. “And three days.”

“Dad?”

“Said he'd be finished by the end of the week.”

“You still at the apartment?” Dean asked.

“Yeah.”

“Got enough money to keep you fed?”

“Yeah. The stuff you got from that last poker game stretches pretty far if you know what you're doing,” Sam said.

Dean snorted, which dissolved into a fit of coughing. “You sayin' you know what you're doing, Sammy?”

“It's Sam. And yes.”

A nurse approaching startled Hank into going back to his post and scrubbing, because there was too much ammonia in the air for anyone's liking. Did Sam really know what he was doing?

*

Julius's prediction was right, and when Hank got to The Centurion for Warrior Wednesday, the place was packed. Half of the additional population was female. And loud. But Julius was a sweetheart, and he'd saved Hank his usual spot at the bar. Several glitter-clad twinks gave Hank the stink-eye when he sank down on the empty stool Julius had just warned them off of, but he ignored them and ordered a beer. By his estimation, there was at least fifteen minutes before Elyon was supposed to come on stage, and the two boys dressed as Roman legionnaires and attempting to look sexy with a pair of spears were basically being ignored. Elyon would be lucky if the other dancers didn't gang up on him and try to steal all his tips before the night was out.

After visiting hours ended and Sam left, Hank had made idle conversation with some of the nurses and inquired after Dean. Apparently he'd been in a nasty brawl that involved guns, knives, several broken ribs, and a hefty dose of internal bleeding. His younger brother had brought him to the ER in a fancy classic black car and checked him in. Dean had had some impressive field medicine performed on him, but Sam had suspected internal bleeding and, rather than be a wise guy, brought an unconscious Dean in for a second opinion, and not a moment too soon.

"I'm betting it was those skinheads who hang around that gay club," one of the nurses said. She shook her head in sympathy. "Dean's not much to look at now, but I saw his driver's license. It's not fair, when a man's that pretty."

Hank wondered, idly, if maybe Dean was the real Elyon and Sam was trying to take his brother's place, make some quick cash.

The historical travesty that was Roman legionnaires ended, and the lights in the house went down. Cheers went up, and Julius was swamped with a series of last-minute drink requests before the main event started.

Hank sipped his beer and sat back, ready to be underwhelmed.

Terrence announced the next act himself. Tonight, for the first of only three nights, Elyon was gracing the stage. Everyone was invited to feast their eyes and lose themselves in the fantasy.

And then the club was completely dark. The music that started was as rapid and thumping as the other techno crap most of the twinks danced to, but after a few moments, Hank acknowledged that it wasn't as repetitive, and wasn't a regular eight-count either. There was a stuttering quality to it, several beats layered over to each other that defied all of Hank's attempts to master it with a steady eight count.

And then the lights came up. There were cheers and scattered bouts of applause, but most of the club was silent, watching, analyzing.

Was the figure standing in that spotlight really the kid from the hospital, really Sam? After the legionnaire wannabes, Sam - Elyon - was starkly modern in black harem pants, a leather biker jacket cut down to look like a little genie vest, and a belt made of motorcycle chains. He'd used several old leather belts to make a collar and arm cuffs. Hank squinted over several bobbing heads. Was that actually Sam? Elyon had dark hair slicked back, kohl-rimmed eyes, and a dusting of glitter all down his torso. Hank eyed the boy-lean shoulders that tapered to slender hips, to the tantalizing curve of the boy's behind where his pants rode low, and the figure was about right - certainly the right height. But there was no way he was the junior lumberjack Hank had seen reading classical Latin hours before. The figure on stage practically had no bones, undulated and turned, shimmied and dipped with a grace and sensuality that had Hank's pulse jumping in a way it hadn't since he couldn't remember when. Hank had tried watching belly dancing a time or two before, but usually the crowd was full of ravenous middle-aged women and there had been too much noise and too many bright colors for his taste. Most of the dancers he'd seen had been too effeminate for his taste; he was gay because he liked men, and he liked his men to look like men, too. Not that he was averse to pretty, or young, or slender.

Sam was all three of those things and then some. He was impressively flexible in the sinuous way he moved, but the line of his hands was still decidedly masculine, especially when he curled them around a gleaming steel scimitar. At least he was keeping with the theme for Warrior Wednesday. Balancing the sword on his head was probably supposed to be the impressive part, but what was more impressive was the way he shimmied, a tight, intense, rapid-fire vibration in time to the music, and Hank was pretty sure no one was paying attention to the sword and everyone was wondering what those hips would feel like against theirs.

Hank would never have thought balancing a sword on one's shoulder was all that much of a skill, but Sam did it and then twined his arms in such a way that made Hank - and, judging by the breathy moans on either side of him, other people in the club - imagine those arms winding around him, dragging him close for a delicious press of flesh.

Balancing the sword on one hip and then one knee - that was more impressive. Then Sam was spinning across the stage, sword high over his head, and he glided through a series of motions that made Hank suspect Sam knew how to do more than just dance with a sword. Someone cheered. Belatedly, Hank realized it was him, and he cut himself off, embarrassed.

Sam arched backward, so far his spine would surely snap, ninety degrees, but he held himself there, and then inched lower, lower. The abdominal strength, the thigh strength that required was unthinkable. Hank swallowed hard. What other things Sam could do with that kind of strength were best left up to the imagination, though Hank wouldn’t be averse to finding out in real life.

Sam dropped, hit the stage flat on his back, bent at the knees, sword high above his head. He was stretched out like a ritual sacrifice, vulnerable and gleaming. The audience cheered. Hank joined in shamelessly. He heard Julius chuckling behind him, but he didn't care.

Then Sam lowered the sword, dragged it down his torso to rest on his belly, a lethal caress, and he balanced it there, right in the dip of his hips where Hank liked to lick. Sam flung an arm across his eyes, turned his face away like he was ashamed, and undulated his hips so fast the sword was practically vibrating.

The crowd screamed, and money rained down on the stage. Hank's voice was caught in his throat. Sam undulated upward with agonizing slowness, the sword still balanced on his belly just above his belt in a manner both impressive and obscene, and Hank wanted, desperately, to know what that body would feel like when it was undulating under him. Hank spent the rest of the performance - more dancing and shimmying with the sword, the crowd going wild and cheering so loud it was a wonder Sam could hear his own music - painfully aroused and sick with guilt.

After Sam took his bows and the lights went down, Hank stumbled for the door, hands trembling, and fumbled for his cigarette and lighter. He huddled in the shadows, sucking down blessed nicotine and swallowing back the urge to retch. He knew most of those boys didn’t dance because they enjoyed it or wanted it. They did it for the money. Knowing exactly what Sam danced for, knowing he was a smart, capable kid in a desperate situation, made Hank sick even though he was buying exactly what the kid was selling.

Ten minutes later, likely after having scavenged the stage for all those tips, the green metal door swung open and Sam stepped out, clad in a ratty USMC t-shirt and holey jeans, backpack over one shoulder. He hurried into the night. Hank hoped he actually had a home to go to.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Super thanks to [](http://geckoholic.livejournal.com/profile)[geckoholic](http://geckoholic.livejournal.com/) for the amazing artwork and support, and from [](http://jmsabat.livejournal.com/profile)[jmsabat](http://jmsabat.livejournal.com/) for being a beta, for my girl E for helping me come up with a title.

The next day at the hospital, Hank saw Dean sitting up in bed. Sam stood beside him, half-finished calculus discarded at his feet.

“It's Vonnegut. I think you’ll like it.” Sam waggled the red paperback enticingly. In daylight, he had hazel eyes, bright and completely scrubbed free of kohl. Under the stage lights his eyes had been smoky-dark, mysterious.

“Books are your thing, Sammy, not mine.” Dean grimaced.

"They can be yours, too," Sam said. He didn't correct the use of the nickname. "All you ever read is the stuff Dad assigns us for research. You should read something for yourself."

"Yeah, research is just about all the reading I can take." Dean batted the book aside.

"I'll do all the research from now on," Sam said. "Look - you'll drop what precious IQ points you have watching daytime soaps all the time. Read this book. Or you'll get cranky and piss off the nurses, and you know the rules - always make the nurses happy."

It sounded like Sam and Dean had spent more than their fair share of time at a hospital.

"What makes you think I'll like -" Dean squinted at the title - " _Slaughterhouse Five_?"

"It's got alien porn," Sam said.

Hank blinked. That wasn't usually the selling point for a literary classic.

Dean's eyebrows went up. "And you read this filth, Sammy? I'm surprised at you."'

"Yeah, that's not why I read the book." Sam rolled his eyes. "Wasn't really my thing. But I think it'll be yours."

Dean eyed the book for a moment. Then he snatched it from his brother in a stunning display of reflexes for a man in his condition. "Fine. If it makes you happy, Princess."

"It does," Sam said. He scooped up his calculus homework.

"You have enough money for lunches and stuff?" Dean asked, thumbing open the book.

"Yeah," Sam said. "Dad left me a credit card, too."

"Okay." Dean tried to smile, grimaced, and lowered himself gingerly back onto his nest of pillows. "I bet I could swindle a couple of janitors in a game of five card draw, if you need anything."

Sam smiled tightly. "I'm fine. Now shut up and read. I'm trying to learn something."

"Nothing useful, nerd boy," Dean said, but he actually settled down to read.

In daylight, under the harsh illumination of truth, Hank didn't want to drag Sam back to the janitor's closet for a world-shaking exchange of bodily fluids. He wanted to take Sam home and feed him, give him a safe place to stay. Hank felt his lunch roil in his stomach. Wanting to take Sam or wanting to take care of him - Hank didn't know which was worse.

*

That didn't stop him from going back to The Centurion for Thunder Thursday, where the main fare was the beefcakes doing their best impressions of the Vegas act 'Thunder from Down Under', only with a vague Roman edge. Apparently leather could never be over-sold.

"So," Julius said, sliding a beer bottle across the bar and right into Hank's waiting hands, "you booked it out of here pretty fast last night. What did you think of the famous Elyon?"

"He was -" Hank swallowed a mouthful of beer to stave off the sudden dryness in his throat - "impressive. I know a lot of the kids make noise about being trained gymnasts or whatever working the poles, but I'm guessing that kid has had real training."

"You're probably right," Julius said. "That scimitar looked pretty real to me, too. Did you see the way the light caught the edge of the blade? I couldn't decide if the kid was amazing or insane, dancing with it like he was."

"I didn't really get a good look at the sword." Hank swallowed another mouthful of beer.

Julius smirked knowingly. "I'll bet."

Hank rolled his eyes, tried for nonchalant. "These kids, they're fun to look at, but they're so young. Too young for anything real."

"If you're looking for something real, you're hanging out in the wrong spot," Julius said.

"I know," Hank said, "but where else am I going to get an entertaining and scathing invective about the latest in Anne Rice's choices of storytelling?"

Julius laughed. "Told you I was more than just a pretty face." It was a long-running joke between them. Julius wasn't a pretty face at all. Some of the local skinheads had caught him after a shift once, taken a knife to him, but Hank had stopped seeing the scars long ago.

Julius couldn't stick around long, because college girls in halter tops and their gay best friends were waving twenties at him, trying to be the first in line to get their sea breezes and cosmopolitans and Shirley Temples. Hank was pretty sure Terrence was somewhere in his office rolling in the mountains of cash he'd made the night before.

Tonight the club was packed to fire code violation, a press of bodies so thick people could hardly move. Tiny and Tiny at the door were confiscating a surprising number of cameras.

Hank had told himself he'd just come for an after-work beer and to say hi to Julius, that once his beer was finished he'd head back to his apartment and finish off that biography, maybe try his hand at a biography of Julius Caesar, but one beer turned into two, and then he was nursing his third when the lights went down. Cheers rose. A giddy-sounding Terrence announced Elyon's penultimate performance.

Tonight, Sam was wearing the same black harem pants, but the collar and cuffs and belt were gone. Instead, he was spinning with a stark piece of red chiffon, a veil like wings. Hank admired the fabric's flow, the way it whirled and fluttered. Light fabric took more work to move than heavy fabric, and the muscles in Sam's arms rippled. He was all lean muscle, sleek and strong and mouthwateringly smooth. The music wasn't traditional strip club fare; it had the same sophisticated layered beat as last night, but it was more violins and fewer synthesizers. After a series of dizzying spins, Sam fastened the fabric about his hips for a sash, and then he was just dancing, smooth glides of his hips and that boneless, serpentine twining of his arms. There was something almost robotic to the stop-and-start of his motions. The amount of control it took to move his body like that, the way it obeyed his every command, that had to be the result of years of training. Hank wondered what it would take, to make Sam lose control.

Sam could do tricks, too, flips and kicks, balances on his hands or arced backward in midair, ratcheting his way to the floor so he could undulate his smooth torso and hips while he was on his back and the audience screamed for more. Sam shimmied his way up onto his knees, and then he slid across the floor in a series drops and lifts that must have taken immense control and thigh strength. With thighs like that, Sam could probably bottom from the top like a dream. Hank bit back the moan on the tip of his tongue, but the man to his left had no such restraint. Icy guilt curled low in Hank's gut, but he couldn't tear his eyes away from the stage.

The half hour ended all too soon, and the lights went down to the sound of the audience screaming for more. Elyon apparently didn't do encores, and he commanded enough respect through reputation alone that Terrence didn't even attempt to ask him for one.

Hank stumbled outside for a much-needed cigarette. He'd never thought he was any more or less immoral than the average joe for watching oiled-up boys dancing in nothing or next-to-nothing for money; just because it was boys instead of girls didn't make him more of a perv than the guys who frequented The Pink Flamingo down the street. The boys got looked at like they did because that was their job, what they were paid to do. Maybe some of them were smart, were worth more, but those notions had always been abstract. Till Sam.

When the green metal door swung open, Hank flinched back automatically, but it wasn't Sam who stepped out. It was one of the Tiny men, checking left and right. Sure enough, a couple of nervous businessmen in suits clutching wads of cash and a few of the more popular beefcakes who hung around the club looking to pick up pretty twinks were waiting by the stage door.

"Clear off," Tiny said. "Nothing to see here, folks."

"Hey, we were wondering if we could talk to Elyon," one of the men said.

Tiny shook his head. "No contact with the dancers backstage. You all know the rules."

"Yeah, but Elyon's not a regular dancer," another man said.

Hank could only imagine poor Sam, back in his flannel and jeans, clutching his backpack nervously and hiding behind another Tiny, waiting till it was safe to come out. The kid probably needed to get home and get some sleep, maybe even finish some homework.

Sam really was a kid, not just a young-looking twenty-something twink. He was an honest-to-goodness _kid_ who needed someone looking after him, not at him.

Hank's heart sank. He dropped his cigarette and ground it out with the toe of his shoe, turned and headed back into the club to grab his jacket and say farewell to Julius.  
On the way in, he bumped into a tall skinny man.

"Sorry," he muttered reflexively.

"My bad," Sam said easily. "Wasn't watching where I was going."

Hank's head snapped up. Sam was completely scrubbed free of make-up, hair no longer slicked back, and he looked like his usual daylight self. The smile he flashed at Hank was strained, worn, but his eyes were bright hazel under the doorway light.

"Later, man," Sam said, and peeled away, headed off into the shadows.

Hank watched him go, starkly aware of the warm spot on his shoulder where he and Sam had connected. Enough. He wasn't coming back tomorrow night. He wasn't.

*

Hank was back on the ICU floor - his last chance on that floor for a month, and then the schedule said he was spending a week down in recovery - when a nurse called his name. He’d drifted past Dean’s room once or twice. The young man was sleeping, and even though high school was long done for the day, there was no sign of Sam.

“Hey, Hank,” the pretty blonde nurse said again.

He stilled his mop. “Can I help you with something?”

The nurse nodded, smiled. “Yeah, we’re getting ready to move the patient in 124 up to the regular recovery ward, and for some reason I can’t get an orderly, not for love or money. Think you can help a girl out?” If she thought she could charm him with her smile because she could charm just about every other man on the floor with her smile, she was wrong, but she reminded him of his little sister, so he nodded, rested the mop against the wall.

Dean was awake when they went into his room. He was sitting up and reading _Slaughterhouse Five_ with an intensity Hank typically associated with emergency cram sessions before a final exam.

“How are you doing, Dean?” the nurse asked.

Dean’s smile, beneath the bruises and the stitches, was charming. Had Hank had any inkling Dean might swing his way, Hank might have gone for a little flirting. Dean was the perfect blend of pretty and masculine, bright green eyes and long lashes, full lips, but muscular beneath the hospital gown, even if he did look exhausted to the point of frail.

“I’m doing a lot better all of a sudden. And yourself?”

The nurse giggled. She was a little too old for Dean, but she probably fancied herself a cougar when men like Dean rolled into her local watering hole. “Better all of a sudden too, come to think of it. You enjoying the book your brother brought?”

Dean blinked, startled, and then lowered his gaze, blushed. “Actually, yeah. It’s better than I thought it would be.”

“What’s it about?” the nurse asked.

“A soldier,” Dean said. “And his war.”

Hank had expected a saucy remark about alien porn, but Dean closed the book, one finger marking his place, and gazed defiantly up at the nurse, like he was expecting some sort of criticism.

“That’s one way I’ve never heard _Slaughterhouse Five_ described,” the nurse said. “Usually the critics bill it as a scathing criticism of war and violence.”

Dean shrugged his good shoulder. “I wouldn’t know what the critics say. Books aren’t really my thing. They’re more Sammy’s thing.”

“Sam?” the nurse asked. She was distracting Dean with conversation while she turned off the machines all around him.

“My little brother,” Dean said. “He’s kind of a geek. So, am I dead or something? What’s with all the switching off?” He tensed, knuckles going white on the book cover.

“We’re moving you up to the regular recovery floor,” the nurse said. She smiled reassuringly. “More flexible visiting hours down there. We could even move a cot in for your brother to stay with you, if you like.”

Dean relaxed. “Oh. Okay. That’d be good. Unless I have a roommate. Sammy snores like a freight train.”

The nurse laughed. “No roommate that I know of. Now scoot forward, hon, and Hank here will help you into the wheelchair.”

Dean scowled at the wheelchair, then looked up at Hank. His gaze was frank, assessing. Hank hadn’t been given a once-over like that since Vietnam.

“I can stand up on my own,” Dean said.

“Best to take it easy if you want to heal right,” the nurse said, and Hank moved to put an arm across Dean’s back.

“I’m fine,” Dean said, and heaved himself up, winced and fell back, clutching his book to his ribs.

The nurse didn’t gloat, just gestured for Hank to continue.

“So, if books aren’t your thing,” she asked, “what is your thing?”

“Cars, I guess,” Dean said. He maintained eye contact with the nurse; Hank felt distinctly invisible, but then he’d felt about the same way the last time he’d dared set foot in a gay-friendly dance bar, so there was nothing new about the feeling.

“You like racing?” the nurse asked.

“Not really.” Dean was light, shaking beneath Hank’s hands, too warm. “Fixing ‘em up. And I like driving, you know? Just hitting the road, wind in my hair, Zep up so loud it’ll make my ears bleed.”

Hank eased Dean down into the wheelchair. Dean was breathing hard from exertion. The nurse wheeled his IV line over, and then they started down the hall to the elevators.

“Hey, will Sam know about my room change?” Dean asked.

“You can call him as soon as you’re up in your new room,” the nurse said.

“You mean I get my cell phone back?”

The nurse laughed at the eagerness in his tone. “You got some pretty girl you’re waiting to hear from?”

“Besides you? Nah.”

That earned more laughter from the nurse, and also a pretty blush.

“So, what does your Dad do?” the nurse asked.

“He’s a mechanic,” Dean said, a little too quickly.

The elevator ride seemed interminably long.

“Ah. So you get your love of cars from him?” the nurse asked.

“I guess. No clue where Sam got the book thing.” Dean shook his head, bemused.

“Maybe from your mother?” the nurse suggested.

Dean’s shoulders tightened. “Maybe.”

An awkward silence settled over the tiny steel prison. When the doors finally slid open on the fifth floor, it was none too soon. Hank wheeled Dean down the hall, the nurse keeping pace beside them so as not to pull on the IV in the crook of Dean’s elbow, and 502 was, as promised, an empty room. Hank eased Dean into the bed nearest the door, and then the nurse was fixing up the equipment and the IV, and Hank’s job was done. He returned the wheelchair to the nearest orderly he could find and skedaddled back down to the ICU floor, so impatient he took the stairs. Every night at The Centurion, Sam transformed into Elyon and let hundreds of lecherous men and women watch him for money, money so Dean had someone to help him down to a different floor, food to eat, a safe place to sleep while he healed. Elyon was a shell - sensual, beautiful - but Sam was the real person, the boy desperate to help his older brother.

Hank wondered what Dean had done for Sam over the years.

*

A long line outside The Centurion was unheard of. It wasn’t one of those swanky dance clubs that played Top 40 techno mixes and had a bar staff comprised of all the pretty, popular people everyone wished they’d been brave enough to ask out or sleep with in high school. Hank paused, hands deep in his jacket pockets, and stared at the snaking queue of pretty, shiny boys and skinny, fashionable girls in disbelief. Then he glanced at the sign above the door to make sure he was in the right place. The skinheads would have been out in a show of force if it weren’t for all the pretty girls.

The line was probably a sign he should turn around and go home, finish up with Mr. Churchill and maybe watch an old History Channel documentary.

Hank curled his hands into fists, wondered at his own guilt. If Sam was selling Elyon, it meant he wanted someone to buy, right? Sam needed money for Dean’s hospital bills, and Dean needed to stay in the hospital. He seemed like a decent enough guy, Dean, even if he’d pretended Hank was totally invisible for the ten minutes they’d been aware of each other’s presence.

If Hank spending money on drinks and a cover charge paid Sam so Sam could pay Dean’s hospital bills, was Hank basically paying himself?

He was dragged out of his musing by one of the Tiny men calling his name. Hank looked up, startled.

The Tiny man waved him over. “Julius has your regular spot saved.”

Maybe this, instead, was a sign. Hank glanced over his shoulder at the long line of pretty twenty-somethings and was surprised, for the first time, to see them jealous of him. He handed over his cover charge and stepped past yet another Tiny man and there, his spot at the bar was indeed saved. In fact, there was a little handwritten ‘reserved’ sign on his bar stool.

Julius’s expression was professionally blank, which meant he was about three seconds from pouring a Shirley Temple all over some college girl’s sequined top, but when Hank hollered over the contralto din for a beer, just the regular, Julius’s face lit up.

“Hey, didn’t think you were coming tonight.” He slid a bottle across the bar.

“Were you gonna save my spot all night?” Hank twisted off the top with his utility knife, took a deep pull.

“If I had to. There’s only so much shiny I can take,” Julius said, low enough for only Hank to hear.

Hank snorted. “Says the guy who works in a place where body glitter is part of the uniform.”

“Not my uniform.” Julius grinned. “So, you digging Elyon, huh?”

“Kid’s got talent.” That was about all Hank would let slip, because he’d let more than enough filth slip in the shower that afternoon before work.

“That he does,” Julius said. “Good thing he’s only here for three nights, though. The other dancers are getting pissed. This is cutting into their tips, you know?”

What did the other dancers need their tips for? Not all of them had the bad habits people assumed boys in the trade had. Hank knew he’d be annoyed if some scab worker came and cut into his shifts at the hospital.

“It’s Free-for-All Friday. Wonder what the kid’ll come up with tonight,” Hank said.

“No clue. But I’m sure Terrence will be raking in the dough.” Julius took a deep breath and steeled himself before wading into the sea of waving hands and demands for drinks.

Just before the lights went down, Julius gave Hank an extra open beer and a knowing wink. Hank leaned back against the bar and waited for the lights to come up. The club was disturbingly quiet, save for a cough here and a whisper there. Hank might as well have been in a funeral parlor.

When the lights came up, Sam was in the middle of the stage, head bowed, statue-still, wearing nothing but gold coins. The air hissed with indrawn breaths, but no one dared say a word.

Hank finished off his first bottle of beer in one swallow and fumbled for the second, welcomed the cold, damp glass in his hands, because he was pretty sure he had a fever.

On a second look, Sam was wearing a coin belt that was suspiciously flesh-colored. He had to have been wearing something, however miniscule, underneath it, because when he finally did move, step, he didn’t flash anyone. Strangely, Hank was relieved, but judging by the soft groans around him, plenty of people were disappointed.

Under the stage lights, Sam looked unbearably young. Even though his hair was slicked back and his eyes were smoky-dark, he was slender, narrow at the shoulders as well as the waist. He still had growing to do. But his skin was smooth, and his legs were deliciously lean, the kind of lean Hank liked to have wrapped around his waist.

Tonight’s music was nothing but drums: tribal, primal.

Sam was the same: stripped down, bare-boned, all muscles and motion, shimmies and undulations, sweeping extensions and smooth walk-overs. He had the strongest, sleekest, most beautiful human body nature had ever offered. Hank wanted that body in his bed every night for the rest of his life.

When Sam balanced himself on one hand and one foot, suspended half off the floor like he was just rising from bed, and _writhed_ , the audience went wild. Hank couldn’t scream with them, couldn’t move, riveted on the line of Sam’s hips as he made those coins ring.

Enough was enough. Hank leaped off the barstool, pushed his way through the crowd. Angry mutters spiked in his wake, followed by a chorus of shushing, but he didn’t care. He pushed open the door, and one of the Tiny men made a surprised noise. Hank staggered past the line of college kids waiting to get into the club and made it to the parking lot. He sank against the nearest solid surface and lit up a cigarette with shaking hands. One, two, three puffs and the nicotine was hitting his bloodstream, calming him down. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Sam, nearly nude and on his back, shimmying his hips to the rhythm of the drums, or maybe to the screams of his adoring - lusting - audience. When he opened his eyes, he saw the ghost of Sam sitting in a hospital chair, reading classical Latin as easy as breathing and exchanging fond insults with his brother.

Hank lit up another cigarette and took a deep drag. He couldn’t keep watching boys like Sam and pretending they could be his. He needed to do something better with his life, needed to feel something _more_ –

The green metal door banged open.

“ – Share of that money, princess.”

Several slender, half-dressed dancers spilled into the parking lot. In their midst was a boy clad in plaid flannel and jeans, backpack clutched to his chest.

Sam straightened up, lifted his chin. “The only person who gets to call me princess is my brother. And no, none of you deserve a share of this money. I earned it.”

“Yeah, by cutting into our floor shows,” the redhead who was a gladiator travesty said. Anthony. That was his stage name.

“Tonight’s my last night,” Sam said. “Floor’s all yours.”

Anthony advanced. The other dancers flanked him, and hey, maybe they’d paid attention to one of the complaints Hank had lodged about moving as a phalanx.

Sam shrugged on his backpack; he was ready to run.

“We want our money,” Anthony said.

“It’s not yours,” Sam said. “I suggest you all back off if you want to keep your pretty faces so you can make your money.”

Anthony sneered. “We’re not afraid of you. Look at you - you’re just a kid. You’re barely legal. One call to the cops -”

“And this place gets shut down, and you all lose your jobs.” Sam curled his hands into fists. “Now back off.”

“ _You_ back off.” Anthony shoved.

Sam reacted like someone out of a Bruce Lee movie. He caught Anthony’s hand, pinned it in place, and kicked.

Anthony went down with a howl.

Hank went to step in. Sam was quick, but he was vastly outnumbered. “Hey, boys, break it up.”

The other dancers lunged at Sam.

Hank tried to grab one, drag him out of the fight. Instead, Hank’s cigarette fell from between his lips, and he stared as Sam worked those boys over like a pro. Hank hadn’t seen moves like that since he was a marine in basic training watching his instructor demonstrate hand-to-hand techniques.

When it ended, several Tiny men skidded into the scene, but they came up short at the sight of Sam, chest heaving, standing on the edge of a parking lot littered with bodies, lip split, blood dripping from his nose. He was going to have a terrible black eye.

“What the hell happened?” one of the Tiny men demanded.

“Self-defense,” Sam said.

Terrence burst out the side door. He looked at his injured dancers, fury building on his face. Then he looked up, and when he saw Sam, he faltered. “Did you do this?”

“They thought they deserved a cut of my money. They were wrong,” Sam said flatly.

Terrence went pale. “Are they still alive?”

“Should be,” Sam said. “Won’t be dancing for a while, though.”

One of the Tiny men reached into his jacket for a weapon. “We got this punk, Boss.”

Sam was holding one already. It looked almost comically dangerous in his hands, gleaming steel and pearl handle. A .45, easy. And Sam was holding it like he’d been born to it. “I didn’t want any trouble, but apparently your staff needs an attitude adjustment. Maybe you can audition some dancers with a proper sense of equity.”

The Tiny man froze. “Kid, there’s no need for guns.”

“Says the man reaching for his nine mil. I know what you - and all the others - pack. Now, I just danced the hardest I’ve ever danced for thirty minutes straight, and I’m a little tired, and not just of your primadonnas’ greed.” Sam lifted his chin. “I’ve been shooting a lot longer than I’ve been dancing, so don’t try anything.”

The other Tiny man who’d been reaching for his piece raised his hands in a gesture of surrender.

Terrence’s face twisted, furious and full of hate. “You stupid little bitch. You walk into my club and you beat the hell out of my dancers -”

“And I made you three months’ worth of profits in three nights. Now, I’m leaving. Anyone tries to follow me, I put a bullet in him. Anyone calls the cops, I show them my driver’s license. Just got it a couple of weeks back, you know.” Sam was only sixteen. Guilt curdled, icy and lead-heavy, in Hank’s stomach. But the determination in Sam’s eyes - that was decades older.

Terrence swallowed hard. “Fine. But if I ever see you in my town again -”

“You won’t. And don’t worry about trying to blackball me at other clubs. I’m done dancing for you people.” Sam cocked the pistol without wavering. “Good night.” He faded back into the shadows, still aiming right at Terrence. Hank stared at the spot where that boy had been long after the Tiny men rounded up the injured dancers and carted them off to the hospital.

The same hospital where Dean was staying. Sam was probably heading there right now to crash on a cot in Dean’s room.

Hank ran for his car.

*

“Hey, Hank, are you back on shift?” the CNA at the main reception desk asked.

“Nope. Just forgot my jacket earlier.” Hank jabbed the ‘up’ button at the elevator, bounced on his toes impatiently. It was a good thing he’d only had two beers to drink before driving, because he’d been pushing the speed limit the entire way back to the hospital, and if a cop had stopped him, he'd have been in big trouble.

The doors finally pinged open, and Hank stepped aside to let the passengers out before he dashed in and pressed the button for the fifth floor. This time the elevator ride was even longer, and when the doors finally opened for the fifth floor, Hank was wedged behind a fat doctor and three yawning nurses. He elbowed past them with muttered apologies and made a beeline for room 502.

“What the hell happened to your face?” That was Dean, shocked, angry.

Sam had just barely arrived, then. He must have taken the stairs. Kid was fleet of foot, especially after that dance routine he’d just pulled off. Adrenaline from the fight, maybe?

“Got busted hustling pool. Got away with the cash. We gotta get out of here, though - those guys are looking for me.” Hank heard rustling, creaking; Sam was packing.

“Out of the hospital, or out of town?” Dean asked.

“Both. I got a call from Dad. He’s got a lead on a poltergeist in Hartford, said we should meet him there.” Sam sounded tired and tense. “Can you walk?”

“Yeah.” That was a lie.

Hank knocked on the open door.

Dean spoke without looking. “C’mon, Betty, it’s been barely ten minutes. My pillows have been fluffed, and now my baby brother’s here to watch out for me. I’m fine, really.”

“Who’re you calling baby?” Sam demanded. He looked up, and he locked gazes with Hank. All the color drained out of his face; he recognized Hank from the club.

Dean swung his legs over the side of the bed, paused. “Who are you?”

“Hey, kid,” he said to Sam. “Look, those guys you pissed off back at the bar? Well, they’re coming here.”

At Hank’s use of the word ‘bar’, Sam relaxed a fraction.

Dean swore. “They followed you, Sam?”

Hank shook his head. “Couple of heads got busted in the fight; they’re all on their way to the ER.”

“How will they know we’re here?” Dean asked.

“It’s only a matter of time,” Sam said. “They were pretty pissed off. Besides, now we know where to rendezvous with Dad. I got enough money to keep you in meds and comfier beds for a while, okay? Now let’s go.” He resumed shoving clothes into a duffel bag.

Dean began tugging jeans on under his hospital gown. “What about the apartment?”

“Ditched it today, was going to crash here with you till Dad called or showed up,” Sam said. He glanced at Hank. “Anyone follow you here?”

“I’m a regular down there. They all know I work here. They’ll just assume I came back to pick up something I forgot or whatever.” Hank shrugged.

Dean narrowed his eyes. “Hey, I know you - you helped me move up here today.”

“Yeah,” Hank said.

“And you just happened to be at the same bar where Sam was playing pool?”

“Place has the best games in town.” Hank glanced over his shoulder. What the hell was he doing? He could get banned from the club or, even worse, lose his job for helping a patient leave AMA without filling out the check-out paperwork.

“We can take the back stairs,” Sam said. “The Impala’s parked close to the entrance.”

Hank shook his head. “Take the elevator. The stairs will dump you out right by the ER.”

Dean tugged the IV line out with barely a flinch, but he almost fumbled the shirt Sam threw at him. Sam knelt and helped him on with his socks and boots. “Which nurse is on duty? Is it still Betty? I think she likes me.”

“I’ll distract the nurses while you go,” Hank said.

“Make sure you have everything,” Sam said to Dean, and he crossed the room. Up close, he was taller than Hank, and he was utterly young. “Why are you helping us? What do you want - a free private show before we hit the road?”

Hank’s eyes went wide. “What? No! You’re just a kid.”

“You were at the club all three nights,” Sam said. He was pale, exhausted, but the light in his eyes was terrifying.

“I was,” Hank said softly, “but I doubt I will be again.”

“Oh, yeah? What changed your mind?” Sam reached for his waistband where Hank was sure he still had that giant pistol from earlier.

“You did. And Julius.”

“Who?”

“The bartender. After this, I’m going to ask him out on a date, and then I’m going home. To bed.” For one second, Hank couldn’t believe what he’d said out loud, but as soon as he heard the words again in his mind, he knew they were true.

Sam looked him up and down, coolly assessing, just as Dean had done that afternoon. “All right.”

“We clear?” Dean asked. He shuffled toward them, struggling to get into his leather jacket.

Sam scooped up the duffel bag and his backpack, wound an arm around his brother’s waist.

“Give me a thirty second head start, and then run,” Hank said.

Sam met his gaze, and he still had kohl around his hazel-bright eyes. He nodded tersely, a soldier signalling a go to a comrade, and started for the door. Hank hurried down to the nurse’s station, and sure enough, Betty was on duty. She’d been in Hank’s high school graduating class, and he made noise about having left something in his locker after his shift, how he’d spotted her working the floor and wasn’t that just a coincidence, even in a tiny town like this? Old bio lab partners, working at the same hospital.

Betty laughed and reminded him he’d been awful at biology, and he laughed too, said there was a reason she was the nurse and he was the janitor. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the elevator doors slide closed on Sam and Dean. After a few more reminiscences, he said farewell to Betty and trudged for his car. He drove back to the club, and he asked Julius out on a date. Julius said yes.

At the hospital the next afternoon, Betty and the other nurses were fretting over that sweet Dean Young who’d run off in the middle of the night, and in such terrible condition, too.

“Did you see anything, Hank? You were here late,” Betty said.

Hank glanced up from his biography of Julius Caesar. “Yeah, picking up my jacket. And no, I didn’t see anyone besides staff out in the halls.”

“That’s too bad,” Betty said.

Hank thought of Sam giving his brother a book, of Elyon shimmying under the stage lights, and he said, “Yeah, it is.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The love story of Sam and Jess. Stanford era. Jess POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Super thanks to [](http://geckoholic.livejournal.com/profile)[geckoholic](http://geckoholic.livejournal.com/) for the amazing artwork and support, and from [](http://jmsabat.livejournal.com/profile)[jmsabat](http://jmsabat.livejournal.com/) for being a beta, for my girl E for helping me come up with a title.

Jess had tried to explain to her mother multiple times that Palo Alto wasn’t really that big a city. It wasn’t San Francisco or Los Angeles, and Jess wasn’t risking being gunned down in a drive-by every time she dared to set foot off campus. Still, she’d made a promise, and she was going to keep it: she was going to take self-defense lessons. Her RA had recommended Black Phoenix Studios. It wasn’t far from campus, offered dance classes as well as self-defense classes, and it was cheap, so Jess and a couple of the other girls from her floor went to check it out.

Becky was the most excited. "How cool is this? I'll finally be able to kick Zach's ass when he's giving me a hard time."

"That's not what self-defense is for," Hilary said dryly. "The stuff you'll learn in self-defense, it's not the kind of stuff you use in a play-fight." Since she'd had self-defense lessons before, she'd offered to come along and see if the classes offered were worth it.

The studio was tucked between a used bookstore and vintage record store and had two large glass windows that showed the interior: polished wood floors and mirrored walls, theatre lights hanging from the ceiling.

According to the schedule on the door, self-defense was taught every night, an hour a class, first beginners, then advanced. At the same time, dance classes were taught - both beginner and advanced levels for tribal, fusion, cabaret, Turkish, and Egyptian.

Jess studied the list, confused. "Tribal dancing - like dancing around a fire with a spear?"

"Belly dancing, actually," Hilary said.

Becky's eyes lit up. "Ooh, that would be fun to learn!" She shimmied her hips. "Super sexy, right? Just break out a few moves at a party and you could have any guy you wanted."

"I'm not sure I'd want a guy who just wanted me for my dance moves," Hilary said, lips pursed in disapproval.

Jess thought belly dancing sounded fun and a little naughty. The only dance classes they'd had in her hometown in Wisconsin had been ballet and tap and jazz.

"Check it out," Becky said, pointing in the window.

A tiny woman, dark-skinned, black-haired, wearing sweats and a midriff top, was in the middle of one of the dance floors, doing something cool and snaky with her arms. It looked like she had no bones.

"That's some impressive muscle control," Hilary said.

Jess glanced back at the sign on the door. "Inquire within", it said. She pushed open the door, and fast-paced drum music spilled onto the street. The studio had impressive soundproofing.

"Excuse me," she said.

The woman turned, and her face lit up. "Hello! Let me guess - Stanford students?" She crossed the floor rapidly and shut off the music. "What can I help you with?"

Becky made an impatient noise, so Jess stepped all the way into the studio and let the other two in after her.

"We wanted to see about self-defense lessons," Jess said.

"Well, you've come to the right place. I'm Amanda Quince - I own the studio. Lessons are five bucks a class for drop-ins, or six lessons for twenty-five bucks on a punch card. I do six-week sessions that kind of go with the semester schedule to make it easier on students." Amanda was pretty, with exotic almond-shaped eyes and a pink rosette mouth. With her hourglass figure, she probably had men falling all over her feet. Jess noticed, belatedly, the wedding ring on her left hand.

"Those prices are awesome," Becky said, her face lighting up.

"I think everyone should be able to defend themselves, and it shouldn't cost an arm and a leg to learn how. I let everyone try two classes for free, just to see if they like it." Amanda smiled.

"What kinds of things do you teach?" Hilary asked.

"In the beginners' class, I teach really basic strikes, escapes, and throws, as well as general safety principles, like always parking under a light and checking under your car and in the back seat before unlocking it or getting in," Amanda said.

Jess blinked, alarmed. At home, half the time she never even bothered to lock her car. Hilary, however, nodded like that was all sensible advice instead of rampant paranoia. She was from Boston.

"What about the advanced class?" she asked.

"Advanced weapon disarms and grappling techniques. It's a mish-mash of basic judo, jujitsu, and American Kenpo." Amanda nodded at the back wall where several framed certificates hung.

"Anything else we should know?" Hilary asked.

Amanda nodded. "The techniques I teach aren't set in stone - everyone needs to adjust for the way their body moves, for their body type. A lot of the moves I do are modified because I'm short, but compared to me the three of you are runway models, so I would teach you different versions of the techniques."

Jess had been told she was pretty many times, but no one had ever called her a runway model. She blushed.

Becky was practically vibrating with excitement, and she looked up at Hilary, waiting for her verdict. Hilary pursed her lips thoughtfully. Amanda waited, unbothered by the silence.

Hilary said, "Where do we sign up?"

Amanda broke into a brilliant smile and led them toward the desk in the back where the stereo was housed. She handed them all forms and pens and was about to say something more when the door swung open, admitting the sounds of traffic from the street.

Jess looked up in case it was another girl from the dorms. The more the merrier, right?

For one moment, her world stood still. The boy in the doorway was, in one word, beautiful. He wasn't the classic football player boy next door, blond and rugged; he was tall and lean, and his dark hair looked soft. His bright, hazel eyes had a wicked tilt that made her think, beneath his stillness, he was mischievous.

The boy cleared his throat. "Amanda Quince?"

Amanda turned, brow furrowed, and she looked the boy over. Then her entire face lit up. "Sam Winchester! Is it really you? I haven't seen you in person since - since you were the same height as me." She crossed the room and threw her arms around Sam's waist in a hug. She barely reached the middle of his chest.

Sam laughed, the sound a little choked, and patted her the top of her head awkwardly.

She stepped back, held him at arm's length, and looked him up and down. "Zeus on a pogo stick, how did you get so tall? Not even your daddy and brother were this tall." She stepped back, smiled up at him. “I heard you were in town.”

“Really?” Sam looked startled.

Amanda smirked, amused. “From a certain Dean Winchester. Crashes on my couch once in a while, then hangs around campus because I can’t trust him not to ogle my students.”

“Oh.”

“Took you this long to work up the nerve to see me, did it? And here I thought you Winchester men were made of sterner stuff.” Amanda clapped him heartily on the arm.

"As far as Dad's concerned, I'm not really a Winchester anymore," Sam muttered.

Amanda’s expression sobered. “I heard about that. I’m sorry. Your father’s a stubborn man. So, you made it into Stanford, huh? What year are you now, sophomore?”

Sam carded a hand through his hair, sheepish. “Yeah. Full ride. Pre-law. I thought I'd come down and see if you needed a drummer for your dance classes. If you'll have me."

Amanda's brow furrowed. "Why wouldn't I have you?"

"That time, a couple of years back, in Iowa –"

"Oh, Sam, I wasn't angry about that, not really. I was just so frustrated with your father for leaving you and Dean in the lurch like that, and you had your Winchester pride..."

“Well, that’s over now, and here I am.” Sam smiled tentatively.

Amanda patted him on the arm again. “It’s good to see you. I can’t believe how tall you are now! I mean, in some of the videos you sent, I could tell you’d grown, but - this. I didn’t expect this.”

“Well, you’re shorter than I remember, so we’re even,” Sam said. Amanda threw her head back and laughed delightedly.

Hilary nudged Jess in the ribs. She jumped, suddenly aware she'd been staring rudely, and resumed filling out her application and waiver forms.

Amanda made a curious sound. “So, should I call your dad and let him know you’re alive? Dean swings by once in a while to make fun of my car, but John - I haven’t seen hide nor hair of that man in years.”

Sam winced. "That’s probably not a good idea. As soon as he heard Stanford and pre-law, he assumed you'd put me up to this," Sam said.

"Why me? Did you tell him you -"

"No, but that copy of _1001 Arabian Nights_ you gave me, I never got rid of it. I think he thought I was sweet on you or something, and that's why I decided to run away to college."

Jess had never thought of going to college as _running away_ , even coming from a small town where plenty of the young men stuck around to help on their family farms.

"Oh. Well, I'd love to have you as a drummer. In all the years I've been dancing, you've always been one of my favorite drummers. I might need you to sub in as a punch dummy for my self-defense classes sometimes, but I have another guy for that usually. Where are you staying? I’ve got a spare room."

"I'm in the dorms, actually." Sam followed Amanda back toward the desk and set down a bag that must have contained his drum.

"Right. Well, next year, if you don't mind bunking with this old lady, I'd love to have you around. I'd feel much better having someone to cook for, and it would make my mama happy if I had a big strapping lad around to protect me."

Sam laughed. "You'd protect me before I could protect you."

"And don't you forget it. Now go on back and get reacquainted with the instruments. I'll finish up with these fine ladies, and we can catch up."

"Sure." Sam bobbed his head in acknowledgment at all three girls, then headed past the desk into the back of the studio.

Amanda accepted the completed applications and scanned them.

"Well, Jessica, Rebecca, and Hilary, welcome to Black Phoenix Studios. Classes are at six and seven thirty. You can stay tonight or start any night you choose."

Jess glanced down at her jeans and ragged t-shirt. "Oh, I'm not dressed right for exercise." Or for being in the presence of one Sam Winchester.

"Actually, I encourage my students to come in street clothes, because a mugger isn't going to wait for you to get comfy in sweats before he attacks." Amanda beamed. "It's up to you, though. Classes start in half an hour."

Jess glanced at Hilary, who looked ready to leave, and Becky, who was practically begging to stay. Then she glanced at the hallway down which Sam had disappeared.

"Why not? Let's stay."

*

Jess didn't see Sam again that night, but she and Becky agreed to come together on Wednesdays; Hilary opted for a Thursday advanced class.

Amanda was as bouncy and upbeat in class as she'd been in casual conversation, though the fact that she was perky about gouging eyes and breaking noses was a little unnerving. Still, Jess took Amanda's words to heart. To protect herself, she would have to hurt her attacker.

Every week, Jess and Becky showed up a little early to stretch out and chat with the other students - and watch Sam drum for Amanda while she danced.

Three weeks in, Becky noticed where Jess's gaze was fixed and said, "Just ask him out already."

"What if he says no?" Jess bit her lip, dragged her gaze away from Sam.

"To you? Are you serious? Have you looked in the mirror lately?"

“There are plenty of prettier girls for him to choose from,” Jess said. She’d seen several strikingly pretty girls in the belly dance class, as well as some middle-aged moms looking for excitement. Most of them flirted shamelessly with Sam.

“Yeah, but I haven’t seen him really talk to any of them.” Becky nudged Jess. “Go on. Do it.”

“I don’t really know him.”

“Amanda knows him. Ask her for an ice-breaker, maybe,” Becky said.

Jess glanced up at the front of the room where Amanda had ceased dancing and was conferring with Chris, her demonstration assistant.

“Maybe next week,” Jess said.

Next week turned into nearly a month, and before Jess knew it, midterms had arrived, and she and Becky were huddled in Becky and Hilary’s dorm room, cramming for a Spanish exam.

“Sam speaks pretty decent Spanish, you know,” Becky said.

“Sam?” Hilary echoed. “The gangly sophomore who lives over in Stern?”

“I wouldn’t call him gangly,” Jess began, but Becky nodded.

“Yeah. Jess has a mega crush on him.”

Hilary pinned Jess with her assessing gray gaze.

Jess wilted. “I just think he’s cute, all right? He has an interesting face. And he’s taller than me. Tall enough that I could, you know, wear heels around him.”

“Why don’t you ask him out?” Hilary asked.

Becky threw her hands up. “That’s what I’ve been saying this whole time.”

“I dunno. I just –” Jess shrugged. “What if he says no?”

“So what if he does? At least you’d have talked to him,” Hilary said.

Jess sat up straighter, indignant. “I’ve talked to him before.”

Becky raised her eyebrows. “Oh really? When?”

“The other night. On the way into class, he held the door open for me, and I said ‘thank you’, and he said, ‘welcome’.” Jess felt warmth spread through her limbs as she remembered that electric moment when their eyes had met.

Becky burst out laughing. “Seriously? That’s all you’ve got? That’s not a conversation.”

“Well, no, it’s not a conversation, but they did talk to each other,” Hilary said thoughtfully. “But I can see Becky’s point. It wasn’t a very substantive interaction, was it?”

Jess sank back against the closet. “Can we just finish studying, please?”

“You need to talk to him,” Becky said.

“I already did,” Jess muttered, but she knew her friends were right.

Becky prodded Hilary in the knee. “We need to make a plan. Make Jess talk to Sam.”

Hilary tapped her pen against her chin, hummed tunelessly under her breath. “I know someone in the registrar’s office. We could bribe her and have her give us a copy of Sam Winchester’s class schedule next semester, and you could sign up for one of his classes. Surely you would speak to each other then.”

“Freshman classes are huge,” Becky said. “It wouldn’t work. Jess would totally chicken out.”

Jess glared at her.

“Or,” Hilary continued, “I could ask Tyson to set you and Sam up on a double-date.”

Jess blinked. “Tyson? Who’s that?”

“Tyson Brady. Pre-med student. Sam’s roommate,” Hilary said. “We had A&P together.”

Becky waggled her eyebrows. “That dishy blond thing I saw you walking with the other day? Does he help you study _anatomy?_ ”

“Yes,” Hilary said, completely ignoring the innuendo. “Would you like to go on a double date with me and Tyson?”

Jess threw her hands up. “No, just – I’ll ask Sam out myself. Okay? I will. On my own terms.”

“If you’re sure,” Hilary said, looking dubious.

“I am,” Jess said firmly.

*

The next week at beginner’s self-defense, she saw Sam in the dance studio, sitting beside the stereo and fiddling with the volume controls, drum between his knees. Jess took a deep breath. She could do this, say hi. It wouldn’t be hard at all. Go up, introduce herself, smile, and ask if he wanted to go for a cup of coffee after class one night. She squared her shoulders and started toward him, and then Amanda pushed open the door from the back office.

“Winchester, phone for you.”

Sam looked up, frowned. “Here? Who?”

Amanda rolled her eyes. “Take one guess.”

Sam looked blank.

“I was informed, under no uncertain terms, that you are to always be referred to by the appellation ‘Samantha’,” Amanda said.

Sam was on his feet in an instant. “Like he really knows the word _appellation_ ,” he muttered, and he followed Amanda into the back of the studio.

Jess sighed and went back to Becky, who was stretching her quads.

“What was that? ” Becky asked. “You totally failed.”

“Better luck next time, maybe,” Jess said. “Or maybe I should ask Hilary to bribe her friend at the registrar’s office.”

“Or, you know, go on that double date,” Becky said.

Jess snorted. “A blind date? Please. They never work.”

“Sure they do,” Amanda said, nudging open the door with her hip. “That was how I met my husband.”

Jess blinked up at her. “Oh.”

Amanda only mentioned her husband in passing, and always in the past tense.

“Anyway,” Amanda said, “I have an announcement to make. Next semester I’m teaching a beginning belly dance class at the college. For anyone who wants a fun, educational PE credit, come along and join us. I’d love to see you all there.”

Becky’s face lit up. “You should totally take that class with me.”

Jess bit her lip. “I don’t know –”

“Come on,” Becky said, lowering her voice. “You could ask Sam to drum for you.”

Jess glanced over at Sam’s drum, his constant companion, and nodded. “All right. You’re on.”

*

“They syllabus just said to wear comfortable clothes and bring a coin belt if you have one,” Becky said. “I checked online like five times.”

Jess tugged at the hem of her t-shirt and looked down at her worn sweats. “Okay. If you’re sure.”

“This is Amanda we’re talking about. She never goes fancy for her dance classes, not even the advanced ones.” Becky picked up the pace. They’d been assigned to one of the small dance studios off the old gym, and Jess was excited, a little nervous.

“Do you think there’ll be any boys in the class?” she asked. There were some boys in the self-defense class, but none in the belly-dancing class. Amanda had said boys were more than welcome and even recommended they look up some male dancers online, but Jess never had.

“Maybe,” Becky said. “It’s college, where we find ourselves. I’m sure some boys are feeling...brave. Just like us.”

Jess paused at the door, peered in the little window. Amanda was at the front of the room, stretching.

“Yeah,” Jess murmured. “Brave.”

She pushed open the door and froze.

Sam was standing at the back of the room, bent at the waist, stretching his legs.

“Just because it’s an easy credit for me doesn’t mean it won’t be fun, or that I won’t work hard,” Sam said. “You said Latin would be useful for law school.”

“French would be more, but then Spanish is more useful for getting a job,” Amanda said. “Look at me – I didn’t learn Spanish, and now instead of practising law I’m teaching dance.”

Sam laughed. His entire face lit up; he even had dimples.

Jess felt her breath catch in her throat.

“Whatever,” Sam said, “you love dancing.”

“I love pretty much everything I do,” Amanda said. “It’s how I stay sane.”

Jess could say something to Sam. Maybe he was helping Amanda with her class by drumming for them? A friendly little hello, that wouldn’t be so hard. Jess started toward him, but then the door opened, and a dozen other girls spilled into the room, laughing and talking and all wearing pretty, glittery coin belts. Jess glanced down at her worn-out sweats and decided she’d go online after class and see about buying a coin belt and some dance pants.

Amanda clapped her hands twice. “All right, everyone, welcome to beginning belly dance! This is an introductory class, and for anyone who really enjoys themselves, I teach advanced and beginning classes in all styles at Black Phoenix Studios, conveniently located near campus.”

She ordered everyone to stretch out how they pleased, and while they did, she told them about the history of belly dance, how it was danced by both men and women as a communal celebration, and how it had influenced many styles of dance, from flamenco to Hawaiian hula to the now-fashionable Bollywood and traditional Indian dances. Jess listened, and out of the corner of her eye, she watched Sam. He, too, was wearing worn-out sweats that looked a little short at the ankles and a faded AC/DC shirt, battered sneakers that were more duct tape than shoe. He stretched from head to toe, casually, like he’d done it a hundred times before, and he watched Amanda with an expression both rapt and fond, nostalgic, like he’d heard this speech many times but he enjoyed it every time.

“Now, I know most people think belly dancing is either scandalous or trashy or pretty much one step up from stripping, and yes, it can be sensual and even erotic, but that’s not what it’s for,” Amanda said firmly. “Belly dance is about expressing yourself, about being comfortable in your own body and how it moves no matter what shape, size, color, or gender you are. When you dance for a general audience, it’s not about getting them aroused or appealing to their sexuality, it’s about dance, the fusion of body and music. I don’t judge dancers who dance for pay at restaurants and clubs, but for the most part, avoid it where you can, all right? Don’t use your skills for evil.” Then she winked and added, “But there’s no harm in putting on a private show for that special someone.”

Several of the girls giggled. Jess glanced over at Sam again and saw him staring down at his shoes, shoulders tight. How many of the girls at the studio had offered to dance for him?

“And one thing about belly dance – it’s good for developing the muscles women need in childbirth,” Amanda added. “At least, that’s what the tradition holds, but I’ve never had children, so I’m not sure if it’s an old wives’ tale or not.”

The girls giggled again.

Amanda grinned. “Now that we’ve had the lecture part, let’s have the fun part! Everyone spread out in two lines, in windows so everyone can see the mirror. Introduce yourself and tell us if you’ve danced before, and if not belly dance, then the style of dance. Also, tell us why you’re taking this class.”

Jess and Becky made sure they were next to each other on the back row. The room was barely big enough for all of them to spread out at arm’s length on either side, but they fit. Sam was also on the back row - on the far side of the room. Since he was the tallest in the room, it only made sense.

And then Jess blinked. Sam was standing in the back row with the other students, not getting his drum out for Amanda. Jess’s heart sank. Was he gay? Not that all male dancers were gay, but it would explain why he’d never flirted with any of the girls who’d flirted with him over the past couple of months.

The introductions began, and judging by the dance experience of all the other girls – some belly dance, but mostly stuff like ballet and jazz and contemporary – Jess was going to fail this class. Even Becky had taken modern dance in middle school. Jess and two other girls were the only ones who’d never danced before.

Sam, the last to introduce himself, cleared his throat. “Uh, hi. I’m Sam Winchester. I’ve been dancing on and off since I was twelve, mostly tribal fusion and cabaret solos, and I’m taking this class because I’ve never really learned how to dance with a troupe.”

Since he was twelve? Jess’s jaw dropped. She knew she was staring, but she couldn’t help it. He certainly didn’t look like any of the male dancers she’d seen pictures of – at least not the modern-ballet types. He was tall and lean, with muscular arms. He might have been a hip-hop dancer, maybe, but just looking at him? Really not the dancer type. The other girls were staring at him, too, and he curled his shoulders in, jammed his hands into his pockets, self-conscious.

Amanda clapped her hands, looking delighted. “Sounds like we’ve got a good mix of experience levels in here. Now, let’s get dancing. I’ve got some music, but first I’ll walk you through the basics – lifts, drops, slides, circles, and eights. Let’s go!”

Belly dancing, despite Amanda’s assertions that it was all about natural movement, was basically about being a robot. How Jess’s hips were supposed to move without the entire rest of her body moving too, she did not know. Most of the other girls were managing to imitate Amanda just fine, and even Becky looked okay, but no matter how hard Jess tried, when she wiggled her hips, her shoulders moved too. When she tried to move just her shoulders, her hips followed. She was no slouch, physically – she’d played volleyball and soccer all through high school, and she was in great shape. But something about this dancing business was just baffling. Maybe she should have taken bowling for her PE credit instead.

Amanda turned and faced the class. “Before we get started with the music, does anyone have any questions?”

Jess raised her hand. “I’m not getting any of this. Everything moves at the same time, my shoulders, my hips...”

“Isolation is tough – it’s a learned skill. I know you’ve probably spent most of your life learning to move your limbs together, not apart. Don’t worry if you don’t catch on right away.” Amanda smiled patiently. “If you want to practice isolating your upper body, do your chest circles while you’re sitting down. That way you really can’t move your hips. As for your lower body – work with a partner. Have him or her hold your shoulders still while you work on your hip motions. A partner can also tell you if the motions look right, which is useful if you don’t have a mirror you can dance in front of. I was always pretty good at isolating even as a kid, so it was the one thing I never had trouble with. Layering, on the other hand – I was never that coordinated. Chances are you’ll be better than I ever was at layering when the time comes.”

Jess nodded, and several of the other girls nodded as well. Relief flooded her; she wasn’t the only one who was having trouble, then.

“Any more questions?” Amanda asked.

There were none, so she started the music. It was bouncy music, not terribly exotic, but it had good rhythm, and once Jess started moving to the beat, she felt better about herself. She knew she looked a right fool, but she was having fun. Over the music, Amanda told them about holding their arms, tribal versus cabaret style. As it turned out, holding one’s arms at shoulder height or higher for five minutes straight was tough, and Jess wasn’t the only girl who had to put her arms down halfway through the song. When she glanced over her shoulder, however, Sam had his arms up in perfect imitation of Amanda’s posture, and wow, he could move his hips. Boys didn’t have the same curvy hips girls did, and when they wiggled their hips, there really wasn’t much to see. Unless one of those boys was Sam. He moved unselfconsciously, hips snapping to the beat of the music, and his shoulders were perfectly still. He looked inexplicably hot.

Jess forced herself to look away and concentrate on trying to dance.

The class’s ninety minutes ended much sooner than Jess expected. Amanda handed out a list of dance terms for them to learn and be ready for next session. She encouraged them to practice with a partner and in front of a mirror if possible, and she said she’d see them next week.

Jess and Becky headed back to the dorms to change before meeting Hilary down at the dining hall.

“How was dancing?” Hilary asked.

“It was great,” Becky said. “I’m really going to like this class.”

“I’m really awful at it,” Jess confessed, prodding her salad, “but it’s fun. Becky’s going to have to help me a lot.”

Becky winked. “I got you covered.”

Jess was relieved Becky didn’t bring up Sam, mostly because she didn’t want to deal with more heckling. Hilary insisted it was early enough in the semester for Jess to change classes without incurring a drop penalty. Apparently Hilary still had a friend in the registrar’s office.

*

As it turned out, Jess didn’t need to stoop to bribery, because the next morning in Art History 101, she spotted Sam sitting in the back of the class beside a blond boy who she suspected was Hilary’s boyfriend Tyson. Tyson was talking about something, gesturing expansively, while Sam had a notebook open on the desk and had written down the date and the title of the course.

Jess was brave. She sat on the other side of Tyson.

But she wasn’t that brave, because she didn’t say anything to either of them. She didn’t have to do that either, because after class, Hilary was waiting in the hallway. Tyson’s face lit up, and he leaned down, pressed a quick kiss to her cheek. Jess hung back, feeling about as third wheel-awkward as Sam looked.

“Hey, Tyson,” Hilary said, and then she raised an eyebrow at Jess, smiled approvingly. “I don’t know if you’ve met Jess. She’s just about best friends with me and my roommate, Becky.”

Tyson shook her hand. “Nice to meet you, Jess. This is _my_ roommate, Sam.”

“Hey,” Sam said, and offered a hand.

Jess knew her handshake was weak, but then she was weak in the knees. That had never happened before. Back home she’d been pretty confident with boys, but that wasn’t hard, seeing as she was from a graduating class of three hundred farm kids, most of whom she’d known since kindergarten. She had nothing on all these California beach beauties, and Sam - Sam was the kind of beautiful who got the supermodel girls.

“We’re all meeting up for lunch today, if you’d like to join us,” Hilary said.

Tyson glanced at his roommate. “Sam?”

“Sure,” Sam said, smiling tentatively.

Tyson grinned, slapped him on the back. “Don’t let him fool you. For being so tall, he eats like a rabbit. It’s a wonder he’s alive, frankly.”

Sam ducked his head, blushing. “I eat healthy. Nothing wrong with that.”

“Nothing at all,” Hilary agreed. “See you boys at lunch?”

They nodded, and Jess followed Hilary back to the dorms.

“So, you finally spoke to him?” Hilary asked.

“Not as such, no. Unless ‘pass the syllabus’ counts.”

“It doesn’t, not really,” Hilary said. “Well, you can talk to him at lunch.”

*

Lunch was slated to be the most awkward meal of Jess’s life. Becky looked positively gleeful at the prospect of lunch with Jess’s crush. Jess was pretty sure she was feeling too sick to eat.

Hilary was her usual rational, unsympathetic self. “You’re not ill, you need to eat food, and it would be impolite to stand the boys up.”

The boys had already staked out a table in a back corner away from the windows, which was kind of a shame, because it was a nice day out, and Jess wanted to be near a door for a quick escape when things got embarrassing.

Tyson rose as soon as they approached the table. Sam scrambled to follow him.

Hilary arched an eyebrow and slid into one of the empty seats; Becky and Jess followed.

“Raised in a barn, Sam?” Hilary asked as he and Tyson sat back down.

“In a car, actually,” he said, picking up his fork.

“Oh? And what did your mother have to say about that?” Hilary continued to look like her skeptical self.

Tyson winced. “Hil, go easy on the poor boy. He’s kinda shy.”

“Not shy,” Sam muttered. “Just – not used to real girls.”

Becky snickered. “So you’re used to fake girls?”

“No. Just...girls never talked to me in high school.” Sam shrugged his broad shoulders, prodded at his salad. “They were always more interested in my older brother.”

“Why?” Becky asked. “He can’t be better-looking than you.”

“On the contrary – he’s the handsome one in the family,” Sam said. “My prom date slept with him on prom night.”

“Sam has some serious self-esteem issues,” Tyson said. Sam rolled his eyes.

Hilary cast Jess a pointed look. “I know the type.”

“You just – you’ve never met my brother, is all,” Sam said. “And I hope for your sake you never do, because then Hilary would dump your scrawny ass.”

“That charming, is he?” Jess asked.

“You have no idea. He could charm himself in and out of a bank with all the contents of the vault if he wanted.” Sam sighed.

Jess studied him; he didn’t look quite like he thought his brother’s talent was amusing. “Got any other siblings?”

“Nope. Just me and my brother.” He drained his glass of water in one gulp. “What about you?”

“Older sister, younger brother,” Jess said. “My sister’s married, and Joey’s in high school.”

“Where are you from?” Sam asked.

“Wisconsin. You?”

“I was born in Lawrence, Kansas.” Sam glanced at Becky. “What about you?”

“Older brother, Zach, and I’m from Chicago.” She beamed. Then she shot Jess a mischievous look. “So, Sam, what do you like to do for fun?”

“He’s boring as hell, all studying and running and eating healthy,” Tyson said.

“Says the guy who was a pre-med major,” Sam shot back.

“Maybe we should all do something fun together this weekend,” Becky said. “Go to the beach or a movie or – hey, I heard there’s a great paintball place here in town, super cheap, group discounts.”

“Paintball.” Tyson grinned. “I am all for shooting people.”

Hilary frowned. “I don’t like guns.”

Jess said, at the same time as Sam, “Have you ever even fired a gun?”

Becky giggled. “That was so cute! Do it again.”

Sam looked at Jess in surprise. “You’ve fired a gun?”

“My grandparents own a dairy farm in Wisconsin. I know my way around a .22 bolt action rifle like any farm girl,” she said, indignant. “What about you?”

“My dad was a marine. He made sure my brother and I both knew gun safety.” Sam shrugged, nonchalant, but Jess recognized the tense set of his shoulders.

“So, paintball this weekend?” Becky asked. She nudged Jess and winked, and Jess wanted the floor to open and swallow her. Did her friends not believe in subtlety at all?

Tyson pumped a fist in the air. “Hell yeah! What do you say, Winchester?”

Sam smiled tightly. “Thanks, but I gotta pass on this one. Lot of Latin to get through.” Then he glanced at his watch – old, beat up, the kind with a compass on its face – and said, “Man, I’m gonna be late for my next lecture. Catch you all later.” And he was gone.

“Better luck next time,” Becky said to Jess.

“Better luck with what?” Tyson asked.

“Jess likes Sam,” Hilary said.

Jess barely managed to resist the urge to kick Hilary in the ankle.

Unholy glee lit in Tyson’s eyes. “Really?”

Jess buried her face in her arms with a groan. Becky laughed.

*

After the paintball game on Saturday, the six of them – Tyson had invited his friend Luis, and Becky her older brother Zach – drove back to the dorms from the arena. It had been a fair distance outside of town, but part of it had been outdoors, which was totally worth the drive. Now Jess was pink with sunburn, sweaty, and damp from paintballs splattering all over her, but she’d also had the time of her life, a good enough time that, for at least half an hour, she’d managed not to think about Sam.

When they pulled up into the parking lot behind Stern Hall, where all the boys lived, Sam was sprawled out on the grass, textbooks scattered beside him. He had his head tipped back and his eyes closed, and he looked peaceful.

Jess climbed out of Becky and Zach’s car and stretched. She was sore from running through the cement maze crouched for cover. They’d played boys versus girls, three mixed teams, and one free-for-all, and as it turned out, plinking away at cans with her grandfather’s old rifle did not make her much of a soldier in the paintball arena. Tyson and Luis were serious paintballers and had their own gear, had shown up to the arena dressed in cammo. They were one marching jody and ugly camouflage face paint away from being mini-marines.

Hilary was debating whether she ought to hug her sweaty boyfriend goodbye - she’d had a good time, though she would only admit it under duress – when Tyson spotted Sam. He glanced at Luis, and some unspoken signal passed between them. Before Jess knew what was what, Tyson and Luis were both armed with paintball guns, crouched down and aiming right at Sam.

Were they insane? Not only would they get into trouble, but they could hurt Sam.

“Apocalypse now, Winchester!” Tyson opened fire.

Sam sat bolt upright, yelling, “Dean! Cover!” Then he lunged, dove, and cleared the hood of the nearest car. He hit the ground and rolled out of sight.

Tyson fell back against the car, laughing hard. Luis sank against him, clutching his stomach and gulping for air between laughs. Becky, Hilary, and Zach stared, confused, at Sam’s startling display of reflexes.

Jess started toward the car Sam had dived behind. “Hey, Sam? Are you all right?”

He rose up slowly, every line of his body taut with tension. “Tyson Brady, what the hell? I could have killed you.” The expression on his face was thunderous. He was holding a massive hunting knife.

Luis’s eyes went wide, and he straightened up. “Easy, easy, it was just a joke, man. Paintballs, see?” He held up his rifle in a gesture of surrender. “A joke. Didn’t mean to startle you.”

Sam took several deep breaths, and then he did something Jess couldn’t quite see, rolled the knife in his grip so it was point down, and then it was gone, hidden somewhere on his person. He stalked around the hood of the car.

“Shooting at a guy while he’s asleep? Not a joke,” Sam said.

Tyson raised his hands. “Sorry. Chill out. It was harmless. It’s paint. It can’t hurt you. You’re acting like I just gave you PTSD flashbacks to Vietnam.”

Sam closed his eyes and swallowed hard. When he opened his eyes, they were still dark, stormy, but he had relaxed a fraction. “Right. I overreacted. Sorry. Just – don’t ever do anything like that again, all right? I don’t like being shot at.” He said it like he’d been shot at before.

Luis looked very afraid of Sam. Tyson, on the other hand, lifted his chin in defiance.

“We said we were sorry, Sam. Let it go.”

“What you did was incredibly stupid.” Sam’s voice was low and hard. “Don’t ever do it again. Not to me.” He spun around and gathered up his books, hurried into the dorm building.

“That could have gone better,” Becky muttered.

“Yeah,” Jess said quietly.

*

The next day, Jess spotted Sam coming out of the campus bookstore, cup of coffee in hand.

“Hey, Sam,” she said.

He paused and frowned, scanned the crowd. Then he spotted her, and he paused, waited till she came over to him.

“Jess, right? Hilary’s roommate.”

“Yeah. I just wanted to apologize for what Tyson and Luis did yesterday.” Jess tucked a lock of hair behind one ear, nervous.

Sam shook his head. “No need. Not like it was your fault.”

“I didn’t do anything to stop it. I’m sorry.”

“I don’t think you could have stopped them. Tyson’s an idiot sometimes. He wasn’t like this before, but –” Sam shook his head. “That’s neither here nor there. Thanks for trying, Jess.”

She offered him a cautious smile, unsure of what to say.

Sam shifted his weight from foot to foot, avoided her gaze. “Well, I gotta go. So – see you later.” He started to dodge around her.

“Later,” she said lamely, and started forward. Her shoulder collided with his, and there was an explosion of lukewarm coffee all down her shirt. She jerked back, eyes wide with horror.

Sam’s shirt and jeans were splattered with coffee, and his little paper cup was completely smashed. He blinked at her with coffee-wet lashes.

“I am _so_ sorry,” Jess began, but Sam shook his head.

“Let it go. Seriously.” He dodged around her properly, walking quickly, probably to get back to the dorms and change.

Jess watched him go, her heart sinking into her shoes.

*

Jess skipped self-defense that week.

Becky tactfully made no mention of Sam.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Super thanks to [](http://geckoholic.livejournal.com/profile)[geckoholic](http://geckoholic.livejournal.com/) for the amazing artwork and support, and from [](http://jmsabat.livejournal.com/profile)[jmsabat](http://jmsabat.livejournal.com/) for being a beta, for my girl E for helping me come up with a title.

On the way to belly dance the next night, Jess dragged her feet.

“How can I face him?” Jess asked. “First I was a super lame conversationalist, and then I spilled coffee all over him –”

“You have no idea how pathetic you sound, do you?” Becky grinned up at Jess, who sighed and looked longingly over her shoulder at the dorms where she could be hiding from her shame.

“He must hate me,” she said.

Becky shook her head. “Please. I’m pretty sure Tyson and Luis are at the top of his hate list right now.”

Jess buried her face in her hands. “Why did I even try to apologize to him?”

“Because you’re a good person – you were empathetic.” Becky put a hand on Jess’s shoulder. “What’s with all the insecurity? That’s not the Jess I know, the one who whistles at cute frat boys whenever they walk by.”

Jess growled in frustration. “I know! It’s just – whenever I’m around him, that confident part of me shuts down.”

Becky paused. Dawning understanding crossed her face. “Wow, you really, really like this guy, don’t you?”

“Yeah,” Jess said. “And I don’t know why.”

“Uh, yeah you do – he’s gorgeous and apparently very smart.”

“That’s not it, not all of it.” Jess shook her head. “I can’t explain it.”

“Well, let’s get to class, and maybe you can figure it out.” Becky turned and picked up the pace, headed for the dance classroom.

Their hurrying was for nothing, because they were the first students there besides Sam. Jess opened the door a crack, hesitated. Sam was stretching out, wearing low-slung black pants and a sinfully tight tank top, and he was laughing at something Jess hadn’t heard. His smile lit up his entire being. If only he’d smile like that at her.

Amanda said, “Hey Sam, I got wind of a hunt down in San Diego.”

Jess frowned. Hunting? Amanda didn’t really seem like the kill-your-own-dinner type. Also, San Diego wasn’t exactly prime Bambi ground.

Instantly Sam’s smile was gone, replaced by a mixture of misery and anger. “Amanda –” he began.

She shook her head. “I’m not asking you to come with me. You wanted out of that life, and I respect that. I was just going to ask you to cover my classes at the studio while I’m gone.”

Sam worried at his bottom lip. “And if you don’t come back?”

Jess knew hunting was risky, but it wasn’t dangerous enough to warrant the fury and terror in Sam’s eyes.

“I’ll always come back,” Amanda said. She reached out, squeezed his shoulder. “The day I don’t come back is the day I stop dancing, kiddo.”

Sam jerked away from her hand. “You can’t know that.”

“I can.” Amanda sat back on her haunches, lowered her hand to her lap carefully, like she was trying not to spook an easily frightened animal.

“How?” Sam demanded.

“Well, the guy who called me in on the hunt, his name is Dean Winchester.”

Sam closed his eyes, swallowed hard. “I haven’t seen him since I left.”

“You could see him now.”

“No. He’ll ask me for something I can’t give, and I can’t ask him to tear himself in half trying to choose between me and Dad.” Sam shook his head, bit his lip.

“I’m sorry, kiddo. I know you’re in a tough spot.” Amanda stood up. “But will you? Cover my classes? Chris will be back as a practice dummy.”

Sam nodded and opened his eyes. “Yeah, I’ll cover for you.”

“Awesome. I’ll be back in time for this class next week, okay?”

“Promise,” Sam said.

Amanda smiled. “I promise.”

The miserable expression never quite left Sam’s eyes.

“Done being a creepy stalker yet?” Becky asked.

Jess jumped. She pushed the door open the rest of the way, and the rest of the girls spilled in behind her. Sam was on his feet, a strained smile in place, and Jess wanted, so desperately, to make his real smile come back.

Then Amanda called the class to attention, and warm-ups began. Amanda kicked on the music and drilled them on all the moves they’d learned in last week’s lesson. Jess watched Amanda in the mirror, tried to mimic her movements, but her body just wouldn’t listen to her. Jess closed her eyes, gritted her teeth, counted out the beats, tried to slide her torso without moving her shoulders or her hips, _left, forward, right, neutral_. But she could hear the coins on her belt jingling, and that meant her hips were moving.

When the music ended, Jess couldn’t decide if she was relieved or terrified.

“Before we go on to traveling steps, does anyone have any questions?” Amanda asked.

Jess glanced around at the other girls, but they were all waiting expectantly. Amanda opened her mouth to speak. Jess sighed and raised her hand.

Amanda smiled. “Yes, Jess.” She was so patient. Surely that wouldn’t last forever.

“I’m just not getting the isolation,” Jess said. “I practiced, but it all just...moves together. I doubt I’ll be able to handle a traveling step if I can’t even dance standing still.” She tried to keep the whiny note out of her voice, but she was frustrated beyond belief.

Amanda’s patience didn’t waver an iota. “All right, that’s fair. Sam, I know you know your traveling steps. Why don’t you help Jess, maybe act as her stabilizer while she tries her isolation drills. I’ll get the others started on traveling steps and then come check on you, all right?”

Panic shot up Jess’s spine. That wasn’t the kind of help she’d expected or even wanted, but Sam broke away from the line formation and headed for the corner before she could protest. Jess followed him, her heart thudding in her ears. His expression was as professional and blank as it was whenever he was drumming down at the studio.

“Where would you like to start?” he asked.

“I’m having about as much trouble with my upper body as with my lower body,” Jess said.

Sam nodded. “Okay. Since we just got done working our upper body, you want to work on your lower body?”

“Sure,” Jess said. “So, show me how it’s done.”

“You know how it’s done. Just let me –” Sam maneuvered behind her. “I’ll hold onto your shoulders. I won’t hold tight – you just relax. Now try hip slides, left and right.”

Like she could relax when she could feel the warmth of his hands seeping through her sleeves and his breath stirring the tiny hairs at the nape of her neck. She slid her hips right, or tried.

Sam said, “Easy there. I felt your shoulder pushing against my right hand, too. How about this? I’ll hold my hands out here, and you try not to bump into them.” He let go of her upper arms, and relief surged through her.

Jess focused on her hips intently, trying to remember Amanda’s instructions. _Slide right, slide left, keep your hips parallel to the ground._

“Don’t stare down at your feet – remember your dance posture. Chin up, chest open,” Sam said gently.

Jess lifted her head, squared her shoulders – and looked right at her reflection. Sam stood behind her at arm’s length, his hands barely beyond the width of her shoulders. His head was bowed slightly, hair falling into his eyes, and his brow was furrowed in intense concentration was he stared at her hips.

Jess turned bright red. He was basically staring at her ass, which didn’t look all that great in these sweats, although the coin belt kind of helped –

“You’re still bumping my hands,” Sam said. “With this move, you’re not moving your whole body, just your hips. It’s like you’re trying to draw a line with your hips, back and forth. Reach with your hips and nothing else.”

Jess tried again, but she bumped his hands. “I don’t get it.” She threw her hands up. “I don’t understand how my body is supposed to move.”

Sam bit his lip. If Jess turned around, leaned in, she could kiss him. That train of thought really wasn’t helping her dancing.

“Okay, I have an idea. Come stand behind me and put your hands on my waist, and feel which muscles are moving,” Sam said.

Jess gulped, but she nodded and obeyed. Her hands shook as Sam took her gently by the wrists and guided her hands to rest right above his hips. Up close, his ass was fantastic.

Jess gulped again. Now who was looking at whose ass?

“So I’m going to slide right, then left. Right, left. You feel it?” Sam asked. His tone was as patient and teacher-like as Amanda’s.

Jess could feel the ripple of muscle beneath her hands all right. Sam was basically nothing but muscle, muscle and warm, smooth skin where his tank top didn’t quite meet the waist of his pants.

“Jess?”

She yanked her gaze upward, met Sam’s gaze in the mirror. “Yes, I feel it.”

He smiled faintly. “Good. Now, put your hand on your own waist and slide till you feel the same muscles move.”

Jess eased her hand off of Sam’s waist and placed it on her own. It took a few tries before she could even find the same muscle in herself, but then – success! She was sliding her hips and just her hips, no shoulder movement at all, and she was doing it in time with the music. And with Sam.

“Hey,” Jess said, awed and amazed and still not quite believing it, not after a week’s fruitless struggle, that it had been this easy. “I think I got it.”

She looked up and, in the mirror, Sam’s expression was delighted.

“Great! You ready for some of those figure eights?”

Jess’s hip slides wavered. “Uh –”

Sam chuckled. “All right. Maybe we’ll just work on hip circles, then.”

After the other girls were set to work on their grapevine and camel step, Amanda trotted over.

“How’s it going?” she asked.

Jess demonstrated her hip slides and circles; Amanda smiled warmly at Sam.

“You’re a fine teacher,” she said. “I know you’ll take good care of my classes.”

That miserable expression returned to Sam’s eyes, and Jess blurted out, “Where are you going?”

“Business trip,” Amanda said. “Routine thing. Nothing to worry about.” That second half was directed at Sam, who smiled tightly, nodded. Amanda clapped Sam on the shoulder, the gesture full of masculine camaraderie. “Great job, kiddo. I’m looking forward to great things – from both of you.”

By the end of class, Jess had last week’s drills all figured out and a sheet with this week’s new drills and their names, but she didn’t know any of them.

“Maybe I can get Becky to help me out,” she murmured to herself. Becky was asking Amanda about something at the front of the room; Jess hovered near the door, waiting. Sam, she noticed, was lingering in the back corner of the room, watching Amanda.

Becky glanced over her shoulder, cast Jess a pointed look, and Jess realized – this was her chance. Amanda was distracted, and Sam was as alone as Jess was going to get him. As she headed toward him, she wondered if he had the giant hunting knife with him. Were those even allowed on campus? And why had Sam called out for someone named Dean to take cover when _he_ was the one under attack?

These were things she probably should have thought about before she was standing in front of him and he was looking at her, expectant and a little wary.

“Hey, Sam.”

“Hey, Jess.”

“Listen, thanks for all your help tonight. I really don’t think I could have got those moves without you.” Jess smiled brightly and pushed the unanswered questions to the back of her mind. Sam’s collarbones were damp with sweat, and she was sure if she leaned up and tasted the hollow at the base of his throat, he’d taste like sweat and exertion and, quite possibly, music. Wow, this boy was making her crazy.

Sam shook his head. “It’s all you. No one can learn for you.”

“But you were a great teacher.” Jess hitched her little drawstring bag higher on her shoulder. She never walked across campus in her coin belt like some of the other girls did – she wasn’t that brave. “So, listen, I owe you a cup of coffee. Or possibly two.”

“Two?” Sam raised his eyebrows.

“One for tonight, one for Sunday,” Jess said. “Why don’t you help a girl clear her conscience and come get a cup of java with me?” Hilary was right. The worst he could do was say no.

When he said, "Okay," Jess felt something flutter in her chest. No would have been horrible, but she hadn’t been expecting how wonderful yes made her feel.

“Great!” Jess smiled brightly. “I know a great place near here.”

Sam started to nod, then hesitated. “I’m probably pretty rank. How about I go throw on some fresh clothes and meet you at your dorm?”

“You know where I live?”

“I know which building, at any rate.”

Jess couldn’t decide whether she was relieved he wasn’t a creepy stalker or was disappointed he didn’t know as much about her as she did about him.

“Okay. See you in...half an hour?” Jess hoped she sounded casual, because her hands were shaking.

“Sounds good.”

“Great. See you then.” Jess fluttered her fingers in farewell and headed for the door, steadfastly not looking at Becky, who was practically staring a hole through Jess’s back. As soon as Jess was outside, she broke into a run. She made it back to the dorms in record time, rinsed off in the shower, and was tearing through her closet for a suitable outfit when Hilary knocked.

“Hey, how was dancing?” Hilary paused, eyes wide, and at the pile of clothes on Jess’s bed. The pile was growing. “What’s going on? Do you have a moth infestation or something?”

“No, I’m going for coffee with Sam, and I don’t know what to wear.” Jess dragged a hand through her hair, frustrated.

Hilary’s expression smoothed out, and she moved toward the bed with calm decisiveness. “Here, the green sweater and these jeans. Comfortable, casual, but they still make you look gorgeous.”

“You’re a lifesaver,” Jess said and immediately squirmed into the clothes.

“Hilary’s a lifesaver?” Becky echoed from the doorway. “I’m the one who kept Amanda distracted while you did the asking.”

“Thanks, both of you.” Jess ran a brush through her hair, spritzed on some lavender body spray. She was giving herself a once-over in the mirror when there was a knock at the door.

Hilary turned and pulled it open.

Sam stood there, casually gorgeous in jeans, one of his quaint flannel shirts, and a gray jacket. “Hey, uh, Becky. Is Jess around?”

Jess pushed past her friends and hoped they weren’t smirking as much as they probably were. “I’m here. Ready to go?”

“Yeah.” Sam grinned, all bright eyes and dimples, and Becky made a high-pitched, pleased sound that was quickly muffled, likely by Hilary.

Jess’s favorite spot for coffee was just off campus and only a couple of doors down from Amanda’s studio. It was open late, and half the time there was live acoustic music playing quietly, local artists who Jess generally liked. Since she owed Sam, she paid for his drink – a vanilla latté, which he ordered with a bit of a blush – and then he picked a table in the corner.

Jess set about fixing up her coffee with cream and sugar and studied Sam sipping cautiously at his latté. She considered all she knew about him. Besides the slide of muscle beneath skin and his smile, she realized, to her guilt, she knew little about him. He had an older brother, and he’d been born in Lawrence, Kansas. They had one class together, and he was also taking Latin, but she didn’t even know what his major was. He’d been dancing since he was twelve, and he knew Amanda from somewhere in his past, though she wasn’t sure where or when.

“So, Sam, tell me about yourself.” Jess smiled.

He shrugged. “Not much to tell. I’m a poli sci major with an emphasis in pre-law. Here on scholarship. Was born in Kansas.”

He said he was _born_ in Kansas, not _from_ Kansas. Unless he meant he’d been born and raised there?

“There’s got to be more than that. You’ve been dancing since you were twelve. How did that happen?”

“Widow Quince – Amanda,” Sam said. “She helped my dad with some work project one time when I was a kid, and she taught me to dance.”

 _Widow_. That explained why Amanda always talked about her husband in the past tense, but fondly. Jess had suspected amicable divorce, but she’d never brought herself to ask.

“What does your dad do?”

Sam hesitated, and shadows flickered in his eyes before he said, “He’s an ex-marine. A mechanic. Kind of a rover. Dean’s the same way.”

Jess sensed a story there, but she suspected Sam wouldn’t share it. “That’s all? Surely there’s more to Sam Winchester than that.”

He shrugged again. “Not really. You’re more interesting.”

Jess sat back. “What makes you say that?”

“You really like realistic art,” he said. “Whenever you come across a painting or a sketch that’s so real it could be a photograph, your breath hitches and your eyes go wide, and for one moment, you’re entranced. But when it comes to debating the merits of art in a discussion, you go for the modernist, abstract stuff every time. It’s like you’re playing devil’s advocate with yourself.”

Jess blinked, surprised. After a moment, she realized it was true – she did speak up on pretty much the same side of the debate every time in their art history class.

“Oh,” she said faintly. “I guess – yeah. You’re right. Um –” She tucked a lock of hair behind one ear. “You noticed that?” Maybe Sam wasn’t gay, if he’d been paying that much attention to her.

Sam lowered his gaze, blushed. “I notice a lot about you.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” Sam mumbled, embarrassed.

“I’m just surprised is all,” Jess said, and she really had to stop the words coming out of her mouth. “I just...you never seemed interested in any girls. Like, ever. Not even the really pretty ones at the studio.”

Sam looked up at her, furrowed his brow. “ _You’re_ pretty.” No boy had ever said that to her not, like that, simply and honestly, like it was an obvious fact of life and nothing more. She liked it.

“I just – I kinda thought you were gay,” Jess mumbled, and wow, she really needed to learn to put on the brakes.

Sam laughed, shook his head. “I’m just really, really awkward around girls. They usually don’t notice me, you know? So I rarely took the time to try to get them to notice me – not much of a point, really.”

Jess remembered that first day at lunch, how he’d said his older brother was a charmer. Sam seemed to think himself little more than a shadow in his brother’s wake.

Then Sam smiled and leaned in. “So, tell me about you. I mean, besides the fact that your name is Jessica Lee Moore, you’re from Wisconsin, you have an older sister and a younger brother, and you played volleyball.”

Jess blinked, sat back. “How do you – have you been stalking me?”

“I pay attention to the people around me,” Sam said.

For being so quiet, he noticed everything, and he had a memory like a steel trap. Jess floundered for something new to tell him.

“I played soccer, too,” she offered lamely.

His eyes lit up. “Me too! Well, one summer. When I was twelve. But it was always my favorite sport.”

Jess looked him up and down. “I’d have thought basketball.”

“Not really – I only got this tall when I was about sixteen, and by then my love for soccer had set in.” Sam finished his latté and set it aside. When had he drunk it all? Did it mean the date was over? Was this even a date? “So, Jess, why did you sign up for belly dancing?”

“It was Becky’s idea, really. We had fun at self-defense, and Amanda’s cool, and I thought, why not have fun and get my PE credit out of the way?” Jess wasn’t quite ready to admit she’d been hoping to have an excuse to talk to Sam as a result of learning how to dance.

“Fair enough,” Sam said.

“Speaking of dancing, is there any chance I could get you to help me get up to speed in class? I’m officially one week behind.” Jess leaned in, put on her most beseeching smile.

Sam nodded. “Sure. Just – this week I have to cover a bunch of Amanda’s classes. Becky can probably help you with the traveling steps – most of the basic ones have natural hip motions, so as long as you get the foot pattern you should be fine. But after that – yeah. I’m yours.”

 _Mine_. Jess shivered. “Thanks. I’ll be sure to pay you in coffee and other sustenance.”

“Or,” Sam said, “we could go out on another date.” His tone was casual, but his expression was hesitant, hopeful.

Another date. So _this_ was a date. Jess couldn’t help the little thrill that ran down her spine. “That sounds perfectly fair to me.”

Sam’s face lit up, and Jess thought she might, just a little bit, be falling in love.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Super thanks to [](http://geckoholic.livejournal.com/profile)[geckoholic](http://geckoholic.livejournal.com/) for the amazing artwork and support, and from [](http://jmsabat.livejournal.com/profile)[jmsabat](http://jmsabat.livejournal.com/) for being a beta, for my girl E for helping me come up with a title.

For the next week, Jess felt like she was floating on air. Becky and Hilary made fun of her every chance they got, but she didn’t care, because when she was walking across campus, Sam smiled at her, and after art history, they ate lunch together. Tyson didn’t make fun of them – in fact, he was the one who offered to switch seats with Sam so Jess could sit next to him. Sam blushed, but he stood up and shuffled his gear, and then he was sprawled beside her, long legs crossed at the ankles, notes spread out and balanced in ways that seemed to defy gravity. In the evenings, she hung out at the studio while Sam drummed and Chris taught self-defense. Jess sat in the corner doing her homework on the nights she wasn’t training, and she was surprised when, in the late classes, Sam taught dance. After class, Jess helped Sam and Chris clean up, and then Sam locked the doors and walked her back to the dorms.

He had yet to hold her hand or kiss her, but she was content walking beside him, feeling the warmth of his shoulder next to hers.

“You look seriously dopey,” Becky said after Jess waved goodbye to Sam and headed up the stairs. “Seriously. If I didn’t know you, I’d think you were high. Does that boy wear marijuana perfume or something?”

“No,” Jess said, and she knew she was wearing a goofy smile, but she didn’t care. “He’s just really –”

“If the next word out of your mouth is ‘wonderful’, you’re grounded from talking,” Hilary said.

Jess mimed zipping her lips and grinned, sailing into her room. Her roommate was, as always, absent, so Jess changed into a sleep shirt and shorts and flung herself back on her bed. Yeah. Her life was awesome.

And then something hit her window. She shrieked and hit the carpet. It was a drive-by shooting. She had to warn Hilary and Becky. She – There was another smack at the window. No. Not a gunshot. A pebble. The hell?

Jess crawled toward the window, reared up on her knees to peer out. Who the hell was throwing things at her window?

And then she saw, in the shadows of the tree just off the dorm path, Sam Winchester. He wound up, threw, and Jess squeaked and fell back when the pebble hit the glass right in front of her face. Once her heartbeat calmed down, she stood up and pushed the window open.

“Sam!” she hissed. “What are you doing?”

He smiled up at her hopefully. “Come down here.”

“You could have called me,” she said, trying for indignant but utterly failing because he was so adorable.

“Yeah, but that would be too easy. You’re worth the extra effort.”

Jess glimpsed a flash of white teeth, dimples, soft hair. “Sam –”

“Please?”

Jess was already tugging on her jeans. “All right. Give me a minute.” She made sure to grab her keys before she trotted down the stairs, barefoot. She’d let Sam in, he could say his piece, and then – then she wasn’t sure what.

He was waiting by the door when she got there, hands jammed in his pockets, head ducked, smile bashful. The dorms locked automatically at ten, so Jess had to open the door for him.

“Hey, Sam, what can I do for you?” she asked. She was proud of herself; she sounded calm, confident.

He looked up, caught her gaze. “Nothing. I just –” And then he was crowding in her space, tangling one hand in her hair, splaying his fingers against her ribs, and kissing her.

Jess’s eyes fluttered closed. The kiss was soft, chaste, Sam brushing his lips against hers over and over again, maddeningly gentle, like the brush of a butterfly’s wings. Before Jess could focus enough to react, respond, Sam pulled back.

“Thank you. Good night.” He started to turn away, but Jess caught him by the wrist, tugged him back around with a strength that surprised even her, and yanked him down for another kiss.

This kiss was anything but gentle. It was all clashing teeth and twining tongues, roaming hands and filthy moans. In the background, someone whistled, and there was a cheer – it sounded like Becky – and applause.

Jess broke the kiss first, gasping. Sure enough, every girl on her floor was crowded at the balcony overlooking the commons, cheering and whistling and applauding as loud as they could. Any moment now, an RA was going to come yell at them. Sam was bright pink with embarrassment, but he was smiling.

“You’re welcome,” Jess said, “and good night.” She pressed a kiss to his cheek before relinquishing her grip on his jacket, and he turned and vanished into the shadows. Jess turned and walked back up the stairs to her floor, head held high.

“Finally,” Becky said, throwing an arm around Jess’s shoulders. “You made it to the big finish.”

 _No_ , Jess thought, _this is only the beginning._

*

She barely slept that night, and the next day was spent in a sleep-deprived, dreamy haze as she relived that kiss over and over again. She couldn’t wait to get her hands on Sam again, find out what his muscles felt like sliding under his skin when he was doing something other than dancing. Hilary was unusually somber about Jess’s condition, but Becky was especially mirthful. She’d announce, to random strangers as they crossed campus, “She’s not crazy or stupid, just twitterpated.”

Jess didn’t see Sam till dance class that night. Amanda was back, looking as bright and chipper as ever, but for the mottled bruise marring her face.

“What happened?” Sam’s voice was low, angry.

“Not what you think,” Amanda said. “I was filling up my car for the drive back and some Mexican gang-bangers tried to hold up the wrong girl.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really.” Amanda smiled tiredly up at Sam. “I wouldn’t lie to you, not about that – you’re a grown-up now, kiddo. You know the truth, you know what’s out there – and you know three Mexican punks could never get the best of me.”

“Okay,” Sam said, and he stepped back into his usual place in the ranks.

Jess moved to stand next to him, and moments later, Becky joined them. She cast Sam a knowing smirk, but before she could start in on some good-natured teasing, Amanda called the class to attention.

"I have an announcement to make. First of all, I've settled on your final exam. Our last three classes will be a showcase – each of you will have to perform a solo, at least two minutes long, style and props are up to you. So, you have until the last three weeks of the semester. Start planning now. If you want to recreate a dance you like or choreograph one of your own, either way works."

A solo performance? Jess's heart crawled up into her throat. That was only seven weeks away.

Amanda smiled. "I know, it's a little nerve-wracking, especially since I know some of you have never performed before. If it makes you feel better, I'm offering an extra credit assignment. In two weeks, Fusion Fest is happening in Fresno. It's pretty cheap to get in, and you'll get to see a lot of amazing dancers as well as pick up some great costume pieces. If you go along and write me a one-page summary of your experience, I will give you extra credit. I'm planning on going and I know some of the others are, so if any of you want to go, carpooling is definitely an option."

"We have to go to that." Jess nudged Becky. "I need all the help I can get."

"No you don't," Becky said. "You have a hottie for a tutor."

"Yes, but I can still use the extra credit," Jess hissed.

Sam cleared his throat. "Hey, I'm going. If either of you want to go with."

"Do you have a car?" Becky asked.

Sam nodded. "It's an old beater, but it works when I need it to."

"Okay," Becky said. "Road trip!"

*

As it turned out, dating Sam Winchester was more difficult than initially expected, especially since he had a job on top of spending the lion's share of his evenings at the studio with Amanda. If Amanda hadn't been nearly old enough to be Sam's mother and didn't call him "kiddo" at every turn, Jess might have been jealous. As it was, knowing he was down at that studio surrounded by gorgeous women who could do amazing things with their hips didn't make her feel all that secure about herself, and she threw all her free time into practising for her dance class. She and Becky spent an entire evening looking up dances they wanted to recreate for their final exam, because neither of them felt capable of choreographing their own routine.

"I don't think I could ever look like that," Jess said, watching a gorgeous, curvy woman spin across a stage with a scimitar held high above her head.

"Give it a few years and you will," Hilary said.

"I'm pretty sure I’ll embarrass myself too much to keep this up," Jess muttered. She imagined, wistfully, dancing with Sam one day, or better yet, dancing to one of his drum pieces.

And then she had a brilliant idea. She elbowed Becky aside and typed in a search for a simple drum solo.

"Excuse you," Becky said, annoyed.

"She has separation anxiety," Hilary said without looking up from her textbook. "She hasn't seen Sam since dinner."

"Ha ha." Jess rolled her eyes and scrolled through the video hits that popped up in the search engine.

"Why a drum solo?" Becky asked.

"So she can have Sam play for her," Hilary said.

Becky's eyes lit up. "That's genius!" She pointed to the screen. "Here, what about this one?"

It took some extensive searching, and it was nearly midnight when Jess finally found it, but then she watched it, the perfect dance, one that was beautiful and sexy and, most importantly, one she could pull off.

When she stumbled back to her own room after Hilary unceremoniously booted her out, she found a note taped to the door with her name on it. She unfolded it, and a pressed flower, blue and bell-shaped, fell onto her palm. The note read, _You’re beautiful_. It was signed _S.W._

Jess glanced down the hall toward the main door. The note hadn't been on her door when she'd run back to her room for supplies after ten. How had he put it there? She cradled the little flower and smiled.

*

Over the next few days, Jess barely saw Sam long enough to exchange smiles across a crowded quad, but she found, all over her half of her dorm room and tucked into random places in her textbooks, little notes in Sam's handwriting. _I love your smile. Good morning, sunshine. Hold my hand._ (That one fell out of her art history textbook, and if she and Sam sat with their fingers entwined between their desks all through lecture, only Tyson knew about it.)

Sam didn't even have time to sit with her at lunch, running off on some errand, and Jess wanted nothing more than to curl up next to him and listen to his heartbeat.

In dance class that week, Amanda drafted him to help one of the other struggling students, so Jess was left to struggle with the newest steps alone. After class, Amanda asked Sam to stay back, so Jess trudged back to the dorms feeling cold and lonely. She knew what they had between them was new, only a few weeks old, but that didn't mean she was being irrational, did it?

"On the contrary," Hilary said from behind her biology textbook, "love makes us all irrational."

"Thanks for that," Jess said, and stomped back to her room. Her roommate was home for once, but Jess just ignored her and crawled into bed, switched off the light and dragged the covers up over her head.

*

After a Sam-less Friday, Jess wandered back to her dorm room with every intention of having a Jackie Chan marathon and eating too much ice cream instead of going to dinner. So when she opened her door and saw Sam sitting on her bed, her duffel bag beside him, she nearly had a heart attack.

"How did you get in here? And what are you doing with my bag?"

"Ah – your roommate let me in," Sam said, which Jess didn't believe for a second, but then Becky said from the doorway,

"Sweet, you're all packed and ready to go."

"Go?" Jess echoed.

Sam bit his lip. "Fusion Fest, remember?"

"Oh." Jess had completely forgotten.

"We need to hit the road now if we want to make the evening shows," Becky said. She was carrying her own overnight bag.

"I'm parked downstairs," Sam said. Becky winked at Jess and bounded away.

As soon as Becky was out of earshot, Sam said, "If you don't want to go, I totally understand. I know I've been kind of absent lately –"

Jess surged forward and kissed him, silencing his apology. "A road trip with you will more than make up for all the missed time. Now come on, I get to pick the music. You owe me that much." She darted around him and grabbed her bag, headed for the door.

Sam, still dazed from the kiss, was frozen on her bed. "What? No, driver picks the music."

*

Three hours later, Sam pulled the car to a stop.

“Wait, we’re staying here?” Becky sat up straighter, peered between the front seats.

Sam had picked a motel that was, in a word, a dive.

“It’s just one night,” he said, “and we’ll be at the convention center most of the time anyway. It’s just a place to crash.”

Becky wrinkled her nose. “You sure we can’t stay somewhere nicer?”

“We’re broke college students,” Sam pointed out. He glanced at the flickering sign. Several letters were broken, and in the half-light, it looked like they were staying at the _Red Motel_. “Besides, I’ve stayed in worse.”

Jess frowned. “You have?”

Sam slid out of the car. “Seriously. It’ll be fine.” He trotted in to the main office and came back a couple of minutes later with two old-fashioned keys. He handed one to Becky, the other to Jess. Then he pulled the car around to the parking lot and headed toward a room. Jess grabbed her bag and followed, wary, but when she unlocked the door the room was clean. It was ugly and in need of a serious remodeling, but clean. Sam put his bag down on the bed nearest the door. Jess hesitated. Did Sam expect to share a bed with her? Before she could ask the awkward question, Becky hollered for some help, so Jess set her bag down on the table and went to help with the mess of blankets and pillows Becky had brought along.

“Where’s Amanda staying, do you know?” Becky asked. She dumped her things on the other bed, so Jess did the same.

Sam fished a cellphone out of his pocket. “I’m not sure. Let me call her.”

Did Jess have Sam’s cell phone number? She hadn’t even realized he had a cell phone. She hadn’t thought to give him her cell phone number because all the dorm rooms had phones in them and she had his dorm number. While Sam was calling Amanda, Becky was unfolding a festival program. She already had a bunch of performances circled.

“Look, Jess, I think Amanda’s dancing.” Becky held out the program, and sure enough, _Black Phoenix_ was listed as a performer several times.

“Think anyone else we know is dancing?” Jess asked. She’d made decent acquaintances with some of the other dancers at the studio by sheer virtue of spending time there with Sam, and some of them performed professionally.

“Maybe,” Becky said, “but mostly everyone has obscure stage names, so who knows?”

“Think any of the dancers are male?” Jess asked.

“Could be.” Becky squinted at the program. “Is _Samir_ a boy or a girl, do you think?”

“Sounds like a boy,” Jess said, but she was no authority on Middle Eastern names, which most stage names for belly dancers seemed to be.

Sam snapped his cell phone shut. “Amanda’s on her way here. She said we can all go to the convention center together and save on parking.” He moved toward his bed and opened his duffel bag, grabbed some clothes and made a beeline for the bathroom.

“I’ll be quick,” he said and closed the door behind him. He didn’t lock it.

Becky glanced at the closed door, bit her lip.

“What are you thinking?” Jess asked.

“Stay in there and don’t come out until we say so,” Becky hollered at Sam through the door. Then she began shucking out of her jeans and t-shirt.

Jess stared at her. “What are you doing?”

“Get changed,” Becky said. She was pulling on one of the long, flowing skirts some of the advanced dancers wore to class. Then she pawed through her bag for a peasant blouse.

Jess glanced at her bag and she realized she had no idea what was in it. A shock of embarrassment flooded her. Had Sam gone through her closet?

“I packed you a couple of cute outfits,” Becky said. “Now hurry up! Sam’s waiting.”

Jess pawed through her duffel bag, and sure enough, Becky had packed all Jess’s overnight necessities as well as a dark green skirt and a peasant top she didn’t remember even owning. When she held them up to herself, Becky winked and mouthed _get laid._

Jess hoped she wasn’t blushing when Becky told Sam it was safe to come out of the bathroom. He was wearing the soft black pants he wore dancing and his jacket. His hair was slicked back away from his face, and was it Jess’s imagination, or was he wearing eyeliner? He paused in the doorway, looked Jess up and down, and a soft smile spread across his face.

“You look great,” he said quietly.

Becky cleared her throat pointedly.

“You too, Becky,” he said, and then there was a knock at the door.

“Winchester, open up!” It was Amanda.

Jess was closest, so she opened the door. And stared.

The woman standing on the doorstep couldn’t have been Amanda, tiny and demanding and unbreakably cheerful. The woman standing on the doorstep covered in intricate henna tattoos and bright cloth and shells and coins was all sensual curves and shadowy mystery.

But then she grinned, and underneath the dark make-up she was the Amanda Jess knew and liked.

“You guys ready or what?” Amanda put her hands on her hips.

Becky blinked at her. “I can’t decide if I’m over-dressed or under-dressed.”

Amanda looked down at her bare midriff covered with some ornate henna leaf-and-flower design and shrugged. “Oh, no, I’ll cover up once we get there. It’s rude to walk around in costume while others are performing on stage. But I left my veil in my room. I’m just down the way.”

Sam raised his eyebrows. “You’re staying here too? But you have real money.”

Amanda shrugged one shoulder. “Old habits die hard. Let’s move out!”

*

The festival was both indoors and outdoors at a convention center surrounded by lush green lawns. Stages and vendors were set up as far as the eye could see, brightly-colored awnings fluttering in the evening breeze. The stages were set up far enough apart that the performers’ music didn’t mix, but Jess was still pretty sure she was deaf. All around, she saw people, most of whom were dressed in similar costumes to the one Amanda wore. At least, the costumes were similar insomuch as they didn’t look like anything Jess had seen, not even after her exhaustive internet search of belly dancing drum solos. There were plenty of women who, like Amanda, wore veils or fancy robes over their costumes, but some of the people were dressed up for fun and not for performance.

As soon as the four of them had their wristbands and made it inside the door, Amanda was swarmed with old friends who wanted to hug her, get a peek at her costume, and find out how she’d been since the last dance festival they’d all been to. Becky made a beeline for one of the stalls and was looking at a fancy metal belt that looked like it was made of a dozen shiny golden suns.

Sam rested one hand on Jess’s shoulder and scanned the crowd, looking for a place to sit. There were several rows of chairs set up in front of each stage, but plenty of people stood around and watched the dancers from wherever they pleased.

“So, what do we do now?” Jess asked. She didn’t have to lean up too far to speak in Sam’s ear.

He smiled down at her. “Whatever you want. Are there any performances in particular you wanted to see?”

“Apart from Amanda’s? I don’t know. Becky had some marked, but I don’t really know any of the dancers.” Jess scanned the vendor booths. “Maybe we could just look around?” Most guys hated shopping; her little brother reminded her of that all the time.

Sam, however, nodded and smiled. He slipped his hand into hers, and they set off toward Becky. Jess was dazzled and a little intimidated by all the things she could buy – belts, scarves, jewelry, veils, fans, canes, even swords. She was glad she hadn’t brought a lot of money, because she might well be tempted to spend herself broke. Becky, on the other hand, had brought a lot of money and was in front of a mirror, holding a belt up to her hips and doing a test shimmy.

“What do you think?” she asked Jess.

Jess glanced up at Sam.

He shrugged. “It looks good, I guess.”

“You guess?” Becky rolled her eyes. “Men.” She shimmied her hips. “So? Yes or no?”

“I say you take your time, look at everything, and if you really want it in a couple of hours, buy it then,” Jess said.

Becky pursed her lips. “Okay. That’s a good idea. Wouldn’t want to spend it all in one place.”

“You looking for anything in particular?” Sam asked.

Becky shook her head. “I’m just trying to put together an outfit for the final, you know?”

“Well, what kind of dance are you doing?” Sam asked. “A lot of times that will affect your costume.”

“I don’t know yet,” Becky said. The she nudged Jess. “What about you? What kind of dance are you doing?” Sometimes she just forgot subtlety entirely, didn’t she?”

“I was thinking of doing a drum solo,” Jess said, trying to sound as cool and confident as possible.

Sam raised his eyebrows. “Really? Want me to drum for you?”

Becky pumped a fist in the air, triumphant. Sam frowned at her, confused.

Jess tugged him around so he wasn’t looking at Becky. “That would be wonderful.”

“Great. Well, let me know what beat you want, and we can practice together.” Sam smiled at her.

Jess smiled back at him. “Want to help me pick out a costume?”

As it turned out, just because Sam was a dancer didn’t mean he was much use in the way of picking colors for costumes. He could help with a general idea of a style – skirt, top, hip scarf – but other than that, he was kind of apathetic about the entire affair.

“What do you dance in?” Jess asked after her fifth failed attempt at getting Sam really interested in a particular outfit.

He shrugged. “Black, really. Never had a lot of money for costumes, so I’d improvise.” He was looking at a set of little finger cymbals – Amanda said they were called zills – wistfully. He picked them up, tested the sound, and his face lit up.

“You like those?” the woman running the booth asked.

Sam nodded, tested them a little more. “They sound great. And they don’t feel tiny in my hands.”

“Those are professional grade,” the woman said. “Finest quality. Saroyan.”

“I can hear it. I’ve had the same cheap pair since I was twelve.”

The woman laughed. “You probably outgrew them long ago.”

Sam laughed, too. “Only a couple of years ago, actually. These are beautiful. I like the designs on them. Tutankhamen was kind of a tragic figure.” Then he turned them over, and his expression sobered.

“What about this outfit?” Jess picked up a light blue skirt, held it to her waist.  
Sam looked up, and his eyes widened. He set the zills down. Bingo. She had a winner.

“That could work. If you find a matching top and a hip scarf, maybe a different color to make it stand out –” Sam’s gaze strayed to the skirt over and over again even as he was reaching for a coin belt, and Jess shimmied her hips a little bit.

He swallowed hard.

“Okay,” Jess said. She smiled at the vendor and reached for her wallet. “I’ll take this one.”

“We do have a matching top for it,” the woman said. “If you get them both, I’ll give you a discount.”

“Perfect!” Jess turned to Sam to tell him the good news, but Amanda was jumping up and down hollering for him.

“I’m sorry – I’ll be right back,” Sam said. He ducked away.

The woman folded the bra and skirt into a neat paper bag, accepted Jess’s money, counted out the change. “Anything else for you?”

Jess glanced over her shoulder. Amanda was introducing Sam to a tall, strikingly pretty brunette wearing a deep blue veil over her outfit. He would be distracted for a moment.

“How much for the zills?” Jess pointed to the ones Sam had been looking at earlier.

“The Saroyans? Sixty for the pair. They’re real silver,” the woman said.

It wasn’t an awful price. In fact, Jess had expected everything here to be a little on the expensive side because a lot of it was probably hard to find. Then she remembered Sam’s earlier comments, about having stayed in worse places than the dive they were at now, and how he’d had to improvise costumes growing up.

Jess handed the woman more cash. “I’ll take them.” She had them in a little velvet drawstring bag and tucked in with her other purchases before Sam got back.

“You got everything you wanted?” he asked.

“I still need a belt,” Jess said. “The one I have for class won’t match.”

Sam nodded in Becky’s direction. “There are a whole bunch of colors over there.” He twined his fingers with hers again, squeezed gently.

Jess’s heart skipped a beat. “Awesome. We’ll go check it out. Who was that, by the way?”

“One of Amanda’s friends, Shoshanna. She wants me to help her with a dance sometime down the road,” Sam said. “She has a pretty impressive reputation as a dancer.”

“That’s cool.” Jess smiled up at him. “Tell me when and where, and I’ll be there to cheer you on.”

Sam paused, tugged her around and into his arms, rested his chin on her head. “Thank you,” he whispered into her hair. She snuggled closer, nuzzled him playfully, and he dropped a kiss on her temple.

She said, “Any time. Now come on! We have colors to choose from. Or – I have colors to choose from. You just watch and admire.”

*

Amanda’s first performance was a solo with a sword.

“Wow,” Becky said, while Amanda balanced it on her head and shimmied down to her knees. “That thing looks…sharp.”

“Forget the sword – she’s _blindfolded._ ” Jess stared, awed.

“Amanda is pretty impressive with a sword in a fight too, or so I hear,” Sam said.

Becky smacked him on the arm. “Shut up and watch!”

Sam chuckled softly, then slid closer to Jess, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. He was warm, and he smelled good. She pressed closer to him and hummed happily, but her gaze never left the stage. When Amanda dipped backward with the sword still balanced on her head, the crowd went wild. They made a curious trilling noise that almost sounded like a war-cry. Jess jumped when Sam made the same noise right next to her ear.

Was Amanda really blindfolded? Couldn’t she see anything? Because Becky was right – that sword did look sharp. How long had Amanda been dancing? Would Jess ever be able to look like that?

When the song ended, Jess burst into cheers, fiercely proud of her teacher. Becky joined in. Amanda took her bows, beaming, which was bizarre, because the entire dance she’d been more solemn-faced than Jess had believed she was capable.

“Wow, Sam. Did you see that?” Jess turned, but the seat beside her was empty.

Amanda trotted to the edge of the stage and handed her sword to someone in the wings, and then she assumed a new pose in the middle of the stage, back to the audience. Wasn’t that against some kind of unspoken performance rule? The lights went down, and Jess twisted around in her chair, confused. Where was Sam? He must have ducked out during the applause. He’d probably told her where he was going, only she hadn’t heard him over the din.

The announcer didn’t come back on to announce the next act, which meant it was still Black Phoenix Studios. Some dancers used their real names, some stage names, some troupe names, and some were just studios. Usually the studios did several numbers with different dancers. Jess sighed and sat back in her chair – it was too dark to see anything at the moment. But maybe she’d recognize some of the dancers on stage with Amanda, and that would be kind of cool.

The lights came back on, and Jess sat up straighter in her chair. No way.

Sam – she was pretty sure it was Sam – was standing on the stage in front of Amanda, head bowed. He was barefoot, and he had what looked like motorcycle chains wrapped around his hips, and his jacket was gone. Apparently he’d been wearing a black mesh shirt underneath it the entire time they’d been walking around the booths, and Jess hadn’t had a clue.

“Is that...?” Becky cut herself off. “Hot _damn_ , Jessica. Tell me you don’t want to hit that.”

Jess totally wanted to hit that, but right then the only thing she could do was watch.

The music started, low and gentle and oddly trilling in places, and Sam lifted his head. His arms came up, and how had she never noticed what perfect control he had over his own body? Because when he did snake arms, he really did look like he had no bones. Only Amanda was doing snake arms behind him, and under the blue lights he looked like a twenty-first-century incarnation of a Hindu god. Then he and Amanda turned, a slide so smooth that Jess hadn’t even realized they were moving their feet till Amanda was in front and showing off amazing snake arms technique. The music changed, and they separated, but they continued to dance in sync, two halves of one sinuous, sensual whole. They moved like they were part of each other, and Jess was mesmerized.

It was one thing to know Sam had been dancing since he was twelve, to know he knew everything Amanda taught in class well enough he could teach it himself; it was another thing to _see_ him dancing, literally part of the music, not just doing drills to the beat.

Jess wasn’t used to seeing such asymmetrical choreography. Most of the women (and it had mostly been women) who’d performed in troupes or pairs had done really impressive choreography, but most of it had been very carefully matched. Amanda would sway slowly, hips sliding and falling in figure eights that were so smooth Jess’s thighs ached just imagining them, and Sam would twine around her, shimmying his hips, then his shoulders. Then he paused, slow hip sways, vertical snake arms, while Amanda danced, little isolations to every irregular trill of the music – hips and chest, belly and shoulders, arms and hands.

After a while, Jess realized they were – _playing_. Taking turns. Amanda would shimmy and shake, fling a hand in Sam’s direction, and then he’d take off moving, spinning in dizzying circles around her while she undulated gracefully.

The music trilled, and Amanda and Sam shimmied in unison, hips practically vibrating, and the crowd cheered. As one, they turned, dipped backward. Amanda winked at the audience, and she and Sam dropped.

The Turkish drop. Jess had seen it a hundred times on the dance videos she’d trawled through, thought it looked dangerous, impressive, but she’d never realized it could look hot.

The crowd screamed. Behind Jess, a woman said, “He has got to be fantastic in bed.”

Jess’s mouth fell open. Who the hell did that woman think she was, saying that about Sam?

Sam and Amanda were back on their feet, playing improv tag once more, and then Sam was behind Amanda, wrapped around her, swaying and twining with her in a way that made Jess want to hit something.

The song ended, and Jess was deafened by the roar of the crowd.

The MC came over the PA. “That was Black Phoenix and one of her star students, Samir! It’s Samir’s first time at Fusion Fest, so everyone give him a big hand!”

Jess hadn’t thought it was possible, but the audience got even louder.

Mere moments later, Sam was sitting beside her, jacket covering his torso, motorcycle chains jangling in his pockets. He slouched down, looking bashful.

Becky punched him in the shoulder. “Why didn’t you tell us you were dancing?”

Sam shrugged, but he was blushing. “Um...surprise? It’s kinda why I’ve been absent so much lately – rehearsals with Amanda.”

Jess leaned toward him, pressed a kiss to his cheek. “You were wonderful.” That didn’t even begin to cover it, but she couldn’t very well drag him out to Amanda’s car and have her way with him.

“Thanks,” he said, and he kissed her softly on the mouth.

Amanda plopped down on the other side of Becky a moment later. “Oooh, Shoshanna’s up! I’m pretty sure she’s secretly a robot with how she can isolate.”

Jess slipped her hand into Sam’s this time, and she didn’t let go for the rest of the night.

*

Back at the motel, while Sam was in the bathroom getting ready for bed, Becky sat down next to Jess.

“You need me to give you two some time alone?” Becky’s voice was low, serious.

Jess shook her head. “No. We’re really not ready for that yet. Besides, I’m pretty sure I’m sharing a bed with you.” Well, _she_ was ready for it, but she didn’t think Sam was, and there hadn't been a good time to go asking him about it since his performance.

Becky raised her eyebrows. “Are you sure?” For once there was no hint of teasing.

Jess nodded. “Yeah. It’s only been a few weeks.”

“Okay, but if you change your mind, I can go hang out with Amanda or something.” Becky smiled and resumed combing her hair.

Sam stepped out of the bathroom wearing a ratty faded black AC/DC shirt and a pair of sleep pants that were a little too short around the ankles, but he looked freshly scrubbed. All traces of the eyeliner were gone, and his hair was shaggy and soft again. “Whoever’s next, it’s all yours.”

Becky set down her comb and skipped over to the bathroom with her toiletries kit in one hand. “You snooze, you lose,” she said to Jess and winked.

Sam folded his dance outfit neatly and put it back in his bag. Then he sat down on the edge of his bed and stretched. The hem of his shirt rode up, revealing a delicious sliver of golden skin, but then he was yawning and smiling sleepily at Jess.

“Did you have fun?” he asked.

“Yeah. Did you?” Did she dare sit next to him?

He nodded. “I’ve never actually been to one of these before, so it was kind of nerve-wracking, dancing in front of the crowd like that. Dancing in front of people who know how to dance, you know?”

“You’ve been dancing for how long and you’ve never been to one before?”

Sam snorted. “Yeah, not something my Dad would have allowed.”

“But you learned from Amanda. She never took you along?”

“We had kind of a distance learning thing going on. She’d send me music and videos, I’d send her some in return. Like I said that first day of class, I did a lot of solos in my day.” Sam patted the space beside him, so Jess went to sit next to him, snuggled against his side.

“Well, you looked really good up there. I’m really proud of you.” She smiled.

He leaned down and kissed her. “Thanks. For putting up with me being gone all the time, and for coming down here with me.”

“You’re always welcome,” Jess murmured against his lips. She went to kiss him again, but the bathroom door opened, and Becky said,

“It’s all yours.” She didn’t look remotely apologetic.

Jess grabbed her toothbrush, toothpaste, and face scrub and went into the bathroom. When she emerged, Sam was under the covers of his bed, curled up on his side on the half of the bed nearest to the door and window. Jess hovered between the beds, indecisive. Sam was already asleep, one hand tucked under his cheek, the other curled under his pillow.

After a few moments, Jess sighed and crawled into bed beside Becky, turned off the lamp on the night stand. She lay awake in the darkness for a long time, listening to Sam and Becky breathe. When she finally fell asleep, it was wishing she was lying next to Sam.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Super thanks to [](http://geckoholic.livejournal.com/profile)[geckoholic](http://geckoholic.livejournal.com/) for the amazing artwork and support, and from [](http://jmsabat.livejournal.com/profile)[jmsabat](http://jmsabat.livejournal.com/) for being a beta, for my girl E for helping me come up with a title.

Yes, Sam was a wonderful dancer. And yes, he looked beautiful on stage. Chances were he’d look even better when the only person he was dancing for was Jess. Him being an amazing dancer didn’t mean he shouldn’t be allowed to eat his breakfast in peace.

Granted, breakfast was a bag full of bagels Amanda had thrust at them before running off to catch up with another old friend. Sam was spreading cream cheese on the bagels and handing them out to the other girls from their class who’d caught up to them, and Becky was debating the relative merits of a choli top versus a tribal bra.

Another woman passed by and paused, did a double take. Sam in jeans and a t-shirt certainly didn’t look like the graceful, lithe dancer who’d graced the stage last night, but then the woman was gushing and shaking his hand, fawning all over him.

“Did you see him last night?” Carli, one of the girls in their class asked in a low voice. She giggled. “He was _hot_.”

“I saw him,” Jess said tightly.

“I know he said he’d been dancing since he was a kid, but wow,” Carli said. She looked Sam up and down. “He looks kinda skinny and ordinary, you know? But underneath that wrong-side-of-the-tracks look, he’s pretty smokin’.”

The cougar woman moved on, and Sam offered Carli a bagel. “Breakfast?”

She actually batted her eyelashes at him. “Thank you. You make this just for me?”

“Amanda bought them, actually. I guess I’m the only one of us she trusts with a knife.” Sam chuckled as if at an inside joke and reached for another bagel. He sliced it open with one smooth, practiced motion, then dipped the knife into the cream cheese.

“So, Sam, do you need a ride back to campus?” Carli asked.

“No, but thanks. I drove down here in my car.” He offered the bagel to another girl and cleaned the knife on the edge of the cream cheese tub, closed the tub and put it and the knife in the bag. “You having a good time?”

“A great time,” Carli said. She slid closer to him. “You were fantastic.”

Sam ducked his head, blushed. Why did he have to look adorable when he blushed? “Thanks. It was something Amanda wanted to do, and it was fun, a lot of improvisation. I haven’t danced with her in a long time, so I said yes.”

“You’ve danced with her before?” Carli asked.

“She got me started, actually.” Sam glanced over at Jess. “You want anything? Orange juice? Coffee?”

“Don’t be silly, Sam,” Becky said. “You’re not our waiter. I’ll go get beverages. Back in a jiffy.” She left her pile of shopping at his feet.

Jess looked Carli up and down and thought, _I could take her in a fight._

Before Carli could do anything to give Jess a chance to test her hypothesis, a woman appeared, the same one Sam had been talking to the night before.

“Samir,” she said.

“Shoshanna. Hello again.”

Shoshanna smiled. In daylight, when she wasn’t in her fancy costume, she didn’t look nearly as intimidating as she had the night before, but she was still very pretty. Was California the pretty capital of the world?

“Amanda said you were an amazing drummer, but she kept your dancing skill to herself. Instead of a drum solo, how would you feel about a duet?”

Sam hesitated. “I’d be honored to dance with you, but I’m taking kind of a heavy class load this semester. How far away are you?”

“Pretty far away, but I know Amanda has a really smooth teleconference set-up we could use to practice via webcam,” Shoshanna said. She looked him up and down. “What are you studying in school?”

“I’m in pre-law,” Sam said.

“Another lawyer-dancer, huh? Amanda collects us like shiny coins.” Shoshanna grinned. She handed him a slip of paper. “Call me, or ask Amanda, and we can set this up.”

Sam pocketed the piece of paper without looking at it. “Sure.”

“Pre-law, and that talented a dancer. Your family must be proud,” Shoshanna said.

Sam’s face darkened, but he shrugged lightly. “Not really their thing. Dad was a marine. Older brother followed him into the family business.”

“That’s too bad,” Shoshanna said, “but I feel you. I come from a family of scientists and engineers. It’s hard, being the black sheep.”

Sam laughed, the sound low and bitter. “Isn’t that the truth.” He offered a hand. “It was good to see you again. Maybe we can whip something up for the next festival.”

Shoshanna bowed over his hand, low and graceful, before she straightened up and walked away.

Becky returned with drinks, and then Amanda called out; she’d saved the students a row so they could watch the show together. As one, they shuffled over to take there seats, and there was a silent battle over who got to sit on Sam’s other side before Becky claimed the spot with infuriating nonchalance.

Sam switched his coffee to his other hand and reached for Jess’s hand, tangled their fingers together, and they watched the dancers up on stage dazzling and delighting the audience. At intermission, Sam stood up, stretched.

“Want to go for some fresh air?” he asked in a low voice.

Jess nodded, and Sam led her toward the nearest door. In the warm afternoon sunlight, Jess was feeling calm, sleepy.

“We should think about getting food and heading out soon if we want to get back in time to get some homework done,” Sam said.

“You’re right. This has been really fun, though.” Jess glanced over her shoulder at the outdoor stalls, banners fluttering in the breeze. Skirts and belts and tops were on display left and right, a riot of brightness and color.

“It has been. And it was nice to get away, too, but maybe next time, it can be just the two of us.” Sam squeezed her hand.

“That would be nice.” Jess smiled up at him. “Where do you suggest for next time?”

“The beach, maybe.” Sam shrugged. “Where would you like to go?”

“I dunno. Let me think about it.” Jess swayed forward, kissed him.

He kissed her back slowly, sweetly, and then harder, deeper. Jess pressed closer, slid an arm around his waist.

“Sam, Jess, you’re going to miss the next performance.” Becky had incredibly terrible timing.

Jess groaned. “Why did we bring her?”

“Because without her I couldn’t have surprised you,” Sam said. “After she threatened to dismember me if I hurt you, she told me she’s been rooting for us.”

“Really?” Jess buried her face against his shoulder.

“It was sweet. She cares about you.” Sam stroked her hair. “I care about you. But we probably better get back in there before Becky starts speculating – loudly – about what’s keeping us.”

Jess nodded and stepped back. “You’re right.” Sam started to turn, and Jess said, “Wait.”

He paused. “Yes?”

“I have something for you.” Jess fumbled in her purse. She found the little drawstring bag the woman had given her the night before and fished it out, handed it over.

Sam frowned, confused, but then he opened the bag and tipped the contents out. The silver cymbals fell into his palm, and his expression was completely unreadable.

“Jess, these are – I can’t accept these.”

“You can,” Jess said, “and you will.”

“But these – they’re Saroyans.” Sam gazed at her, searching her face.

The vendor had said the same thing. Jess wasn’t sure what that meant, but it meant something important to more experienced dancers. “So? You should have them. You’re a good dancer. You shouldn’t be stuck with tiny zills from when you were twelve.”

Sam slid the cymbals carefully back into the bag. Then he gathered Jess in his arms and held her tightly.

“Thank you.”

“Like I said, you’re always welcome.”

*

Jess and Sam had been dating for two months, and she had yet to see his room, mostly because they spent all their free time hanging out at the studio, Jess rehearsing her final exam number or doing her homework while Sam drummed for Amanda’s dance classes. One Friday night, they decided to skip dance rehearsal and go see a movie. It was an actual double date with Tyson and Hilary, so the girls headed over to the boys’ dorm room, and once everyone was set they’d take Tyson’s car.

Hilary pushed open the door. “You boys ready?”

“Whoa – hey! Only half-dressed here.” Sam was tugging on a t-shirt.

Hilary shrugged. “It’s not at all obscene for a man to be without his shirt,” she said.

Sam fidgeted with the hem of his shirt. Jess knew why – she’d seen the scars on his back, four parallel lines, like he’d been clawed by a giant animal.

“I could have been completely naked,” he pointed out. “Tyson’s out getting the car. He’ll be back in a moment. Hey, Jess.” He leaned in for a quick kiss.

Jess kissed him on the cheek, then studied the room. Tyson’s half was terribly messy, a mish-mash of posters and homework assignments tacked to the wall, clothes scattered across the bed and desk. Sam’s half was, by sharp contrast, spartan. His books were stacked neatly on his desk, all his clothes were put away, and he only had two photos stuck to his closet door. One was of a man, a blonde woman, a blond boy, and a baby outside a pale house. The other was of two boys – one blond, one dark-haired – perched on the hood of a classic black car, grinning.

"I've seen a car like that before," Jess said.

Sam turned, saw what she was looking at. "Really? You know someone who drives one?" His tone was careful, measured.

"No. Just – seen it around campus and town a few times. Figure someone around here must own one. It's a cool-looking car." Jess smiled at him.

He reached into his closet and pulled on a flannel over-shirt, grabbed his jacket. He never went anywhere without his jacket, not even when it was warm. Jess scanned his bed – neatly made, hospital corners, would probably pass a military inspection.

"Where's the rest of your stuff?" she asked.

In the doorway, Tyson jangled his keys. "Sam's really zen or something. He showed up at our dorm room freshman year with a duffel bag full of clothes and one book, and the only things he's accumulated since then are books. Every time he buys a new shirt, he throws an old one out.”

“I like to stay organized,” Sam said.

“Well,” Jess said, “you could always add a picture of me to your collection. Now let’s go. We don’t want to miss the previews.”

“Who cares about the previews?” Sam asked.

“They’re the best part. We squabble over popcorn and guess which scenes will get trailer-trashed.” Jess grinned at him. “Why, what did you do during the previews?”

“Wait outside for someone to go for a smoke so we could sneak in the back door,” Sam muttered.

“You’re such a rebel,” Hilary said flatly.

Sam shrugged. He looked uncomfortable. “Not really.”

“Enough chit-chat, kids. Jess is right – let’s get this show on the road.” Tyson headed for the door.

Jess cast one last look over her shoulder at Sam’s barren room before they left and thought about what Tyson had said, about Sam living out of a single duffel bag. Sam had described his coming to college as running away. What had he been running from?

*

At the beginning of the year, Jess had been annoyed at her roommate’s constant absence. They were supposed to become best friends, stay up late talking about boys and life and painting their nails, but Vera was never around. Luckily, Jess had made friends with Becky and Hilary at their first hall meeting, and now she practically had a room to herself. According to Becky, Vera was seeing some upperclassman who lived off campus and she was basically living with him, so when Jess invited Sam back to her room after the movie, she wasn’t worried about exiling her roommate for a while.

She was more than a little nervous. She’d only done this once before, and the boy hadn’t treated her badly, but it hadn’t been the earth-shattering experience everyone made it out to be either. Still, she didn’t want to scare Sam off, because if he thought she was at all hesitant about something, he’d back off. He’d been that way when helping her with her dance, suggesting an alternate move if she thought one was a little beyond her reach. This was something she refused to back down from.

Sam had been to her room plenty of times before, sometimes to watch a movie on her laptop, or sometimes to study, but this – this was new. Amanda turned a blind eye to the two of them cuddling on the couch in the back office at the studio, and Tyson always seemed more than willing to let them use the boys’ room, but Sam rarely let it go beyond making out. Jess wondered if _he’d_ never done this before, especially given how he never dared to even reach under her clothes even though she thought she’d made it perfectly clear that all the way was okay.

“You’re roommate’s never here, is she?” Sam said. “I’m starting to think she’s just a myth.”

Jess arched an eyebrow at him. “I thought you said my roommate let you in here one time?”

“Becky’s practically your roommate,” Sam said. He sat down on the edge of Jess’s bed while she kicked off her shoes and let down her hair.

“That’s true.” She reached out, woke up her laptop and set some gentle music on low. Then she sat down next to him. “So, what did you think of the movie?”

“It was all right.” He shrugged. “It just continues to gall me that people hold their guns sideways when they fire. That’s just asking for a jammed gun and a broken wrist.”

“Hilary with the history critique and you with the combat analysis.” Jess shook her head. “I can’t take you anywhere, can I?” But she leaned in and kissed him.

He slid an arm around her waist. “Yeah, well, you don’t have to take me anywhere – I’m happy right here.”

“That’s what I like to hear.” She kissed him again, pressed closer. He wrapped his arms around her, pulled her flush against him. He found that spot just below her ear that drove her wild, and he nuzzled, laughed softly when she moaned. She retaliated by nibbling on his throat, and he sank back, pulling her with him.

Jess couldn’t remember if they’d closed the door, but she hoped they had, because Sam was brushing his fingertips along the hem of her shirt, teasing at the skin exposed where her shirt rode up, and this was it – she was going for it. If Sam didn’t get the message, Jess would just have to tie him to the bed and strip naked. But – subtlety first.

She reached down, skimmed the line of his hip above the waist of his jeans, eased a hand under his shirt. He hummed his approval, slipped his fingers beneath her shirt and traced up the bottom of her spine. Hot shock shivered through her veins. She’d seen him on stage, seen him in that mesh shirt, seen him in that little white tank top he thought made him invisible, and she’d known how lean and strong he was, but to feel it, the slide of muscle beneath skin as he undulated beneath, her was intoxicating.

Jess closed her mouth over his and licked. He panted against her, petting the small of her back, and she remembered something she’d learned in dance class. She rolled her hips forward. The noise he made was one she’d remember forever. Emboldened, she slid her other hand up his shirt, rolled them both so she could trace the delicate knobs of his spine. He moaned, nipped at her bottom lip, and crept his fingers up her rib cage. Jess rolled her hips against him again, got one of those perfect little noises of pleasure, and then her fingers skidded over too-smooth skin. Scar tissue.

Sam shot backward, pressing himself against the wall at the other end of the bed, breathing hard.

Jess snatched her hands back. “Sorry! Sorry. Does it still hurt?”

Sam shook his head. “No. It was a couple of years ago.” He was still breathing hard, avoiding her gaze. “I just – it’s been a couple of years.”

A couple of years? At least she knew he’d done it before. She lowered her hands, curled in on herself, made herself look smaller, the way she’d learned to approach a skittish animal. “I didn’t mean to push,” she said quietly.

He shook his head again. “You didn’t push. I wasn’t expecting – I didn’t think I’d be like that.” He exhaled shakily, scrubbed a hand over his face. “It’s just – been a while.”

Jess bit her lip. “What happened?”

Immediately she regretted asking the question. Sam’s entire body closed up, and he shifted further away from her.

“It was an accident. Wild animal attack. Not one of my finer moments.” Sam wrapped his arms around himself. “I’m not like Dean. I’m not proud of my scars. Can’t make up an outrageous explanation and pass it off with a charming grin.” He peered up at her through his lashes. “I’m sorry. I just ruined what should have been an awesome time.”

Jess’s chest tightened. “Don’t apologize. You didn’t do anything wrong. I didn’t mean to –”

“Trigger my crazy?”

“You don’t have to tell me what happened,” Jess said. “It’s none of my business.”

Sam laughed then, the sound choked. “Yeah, but it should be. That’s what trust is, right? Don’t all good relationships need trust?”

They did, but Jess wasn’t about to push him away. “Trust takes time.”

Sam huffed. “How much time have you got?”

“However long you need.” She meant every word.

Sam stared at his hands for a long moment. Then he straightened up. “Thank you.” He shook his head, sighed. “I say that to you a lot. I mean it every time, but you’re probably tired of hearing it. What did I ever do to deserve you?”

Jess shrugged. “I don’t know. Agreed to have coffee with me?” She kept her tone light, friendly. It did the trick. Sam smiled and reached for her, and she let herself be drawn into his embrace. As she curled against him and listened to his heartbeat, she wondered what other scars he had, and how he’d got them, and if he would ever tell her.

*

“So,” Becky said, “you and Sam have spent an awful lot of time _rehearsing_.”

“And studying for your art history final, I hope,” Hilary said without looking up from her textbook.

Becky waggled her eyebrows. “Is Sam as good a _dancer_ as he looks on stage?”

Jess pursed her lips primly. “We’ve been doing real work. And yes –” this she directed at Hilary – “we’ve been studying. Tyson will vouch for us.” She shifted her binder higher on her knees and shuffled her flashcards. Truth was, she and Sam had been rehearsing hard, him drumming and coaching her on her routine, both of them poring over the outlines they’d made for their art history final. She felt like she was back in middle school, reduced to holding hands and quick, close-mouthed kisses and being nervous about where she touched his body. Sam was apologetic every time he flinched back from an embrace, but whenever Jess started to ask about his childhood, his past, he shook his head and changed the subject.

“Hey, Hilary, what do you know about Sam?” Jess asked.

Hilary frowned. “Far less than you, I’m sure.”

“Well, what _do_ you know?”

“His name’s Sam Winchester, he was born in Lawrence, Kansas, and he has an older brother. His father was a marine, and his mom died when he was a kid. Car crash or something.” Hilary shrugged. “Why?”

Sam never mentioned his mother. A car crash certainly explained why the only picture Sam had of his mother was from when he was a baby.

“Just curious is all,” Jess said. “Hey, are you guys taking summer classes?”

Becky shook her head. “Nope. Got a summer job back home. Figure I’ll mooch off my parents so we can get a place off campus next semester. You in?”

“Maybe,” Hilary said. “Depends on how things go with Tyson. Jess?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “I guess it kind of depends on Sam.”

“Sam’s taking summer classes,” Hilary said.

Jess frowned. “He’s not going home?”

Hilary shook her head. “Tyson said he didn’t go home for Thanksgiving, and I think when they closed the dorms over Christmas he slept on Amanda’s couch at the studio or something.”

Jess frowned. “He told me he spent time with his brother at Christmas.”

“Maybe he did,” Becky said. “ Amanda’s friends with Sam’s older brother. Sometimes he comes to visit her, I think. Maybe they all had Christmas together.”

Not for the first time, Jess wanted to ask Amanda for everything she knew about Sam.  
Jess intended to, after self defense on Wednesday night. After class, Jess packed up her gear and squared her shoulders, headed over to the desk where Amanda was sending someone a quick email and talking on the phone at the same time.

“Just because I’m Asian doesn’t mean I speak Japanese, Bobby Singer.” Amanda sounded both exasperated and fond. “Because the part of me that’s Asian? Is Chinese. Oh yeah? Well, you all look the same to me too.” She laughed. “Yep, that’s everything I got. I’d help out with this one, but I have final exams for the next couple of weeks, and that’s not something I can delegate. All right – good luck. You too, old man.” She spotted Jess and smiled, held up a hand in the universal gesture to wait, nodded at something Bobby Singer said. “Yeah, you’re old enough to be _my_ dad, so you’re old. And if John puts his pride aside long enough to ask, his youngest is fine. No, you didn’t get it from me. Or from his oldest, who comes roaring into town in that muscle car of his and skulks around campus just long enough to make the rent-a-cops twitchy. You got it from Caleb, who came out here for a gun show.” Amanda gestured for Jess to take a seat, so she did. “Awww, Bobby, you really mean it? I hate you too. Bye now.” She hung up, chuckling, and shook her head. “That cantankerous old coot. So, you ready?”

“Ready for what?” Jess asked.

Amanda waggled her eyebrows. “To get your groove thang on tomorrow night. You’re up!”

All thoughts of Sam’s mysterious past vanished. “Tomorrow? Me?” Jess’s voice squeaked.

“Yup! You and Sam are both performing tomorrow night. It’s finals time. Hope you invited some friends – there will be refreshments after.”

Jess was on her feet, heart pounding, hands shaking. “Thanks for telling me. Does Sam know?”

“He knows to bring a drum for you,” Amanda said. “Anything else you needed?”

Jess shook her head. She didn’t even wait for Becky – she ran back to the dorms at a full sprint, students and pedestrians scattering from her path.

The final exam. Hers was tomorrow. It occurred to her, as she dashed up the stairs, she’d forgotten something back at the studio. Whatever it was, it must not have been that important, because tomorrow, she was going to have to perform. In _public._

*

Jess tugged her veil closer around her and stood along the wall farthest from the door. Amanda had gotten permission to hold the final exams in a bigger dance studio, complete with chairs set up for an audience, because family and friends were invited. Hilary had come along, naturally, but Jess hadn’t expected everyone else who lived on their floor, including the RA. Tyson, thankfully, was nowhere to be seen, because his leers and comments whenever he found Jess and Sam huddled over their textbooks together were downright annoying. Some of the girls had invited their boyfriends to the show, and Jess was really regretting having eaten dinner at all.

Sam stood beside her, wearing his black pants and his gray jacket, drum tucked under one arm. He looked frustratingly calm. Amanda was setting up a video camera and promised everyone copies of their own performances if they so desired.

One boy, red-faced and sitting beside one of the experienced dancers who was wearing fancy velvet robes over her costume, looked up at Sam.

“Is your girlfriend dancing tonight, too?”

“Yeah,” Sam said, and he reached for Jess’s hand, squeezed. “She is.” He flashed her a quick smile.

She smiled back at him. She’d told him he was dancing tonight too, and he took it in stride. How could he be so calm? He’d seemed so nervous, bashful about dancing at Fusion Fest; he hadn’t told anyone about it beforehand, and afterward he’d been overwhelmed by the attention he received from admiring members of the audience.

Amanda called the audience to attention and announced the first night of final exams in her class, spread across three weeks. Family and friends were welcome, and she was having light refreshments at the studio off campus for anyone who wanted to come celebrate all the hard work that had been done over the course of the semester.

Jess wasn’t first, nor was she last – that honor went to Sam. The first girl did a cute cabaret dance with a giant feathered fan that reminded Jess of old west burlesque shows. Another danced to fast-paced hip-hop with a cane, twirling it and spinning it over her head. Becky had chosen some Shakira and Britney Spears and had Zach remix it together for her. The audience clapped along while Becky shimmied to _hips don’t lie_ and undulated to _slave for you_. More than one young man in the audience whistled appreciatively when she was done, and Becky actually winked back. Zach, standing in the back with his arms crossed over his chest, glared at the recipient of the wink.

Then Amanda called Jess’s name, and she shrugged off her veil, handed it to Hilary, and moved up to the center of the stage. Sam knelt in the corner behind her, settled his drum between his thighs, and started to play. Jess closed her eyes and let the beat wash over her. Her heart was pounding, her palms were sweating – but then Sam hit the trill beat, the signal, and she started to move. She’d done this a hundred times, and this was just one more time. Becky let out a zaghareet, and Jess’s eyes flew open.

This wasn’t just one more time. It was the final time. Lights, camera, action. She was in the middle of the stage, all eyes on her, wearing the pale blue that made Sam’s eyes go wide, and she was shaking her hips and shimmying her shoulders for all the world.

No. Not the world. Just Sam. She could feel his gaze burning into her, and when she dipped into a four point turn, she saw him, his green eyes bright. He was watching her, and she was dancing for him. Every slide of her hips, twist of her hands – it was all for him. And the music he was making – it was all for her.

Then the last eight count spooled itself out of her in a series of rapid-fire hip lifts, and she hit her final pose. The drum went silent. The audience went crazy. Jess had done it. She took her bows and hurried off the stage, eager to get her veil wrapped around her again. Sam caught up with her moments later, pulled her into a brief kiss.

“You were amazing out there,” he whispered into her hair.

She hugged him back. “Thank you,” she whispered back.

Jess spent the rest of the show huddled beneath her veil, reliving the audience’s cheers and watching Sam as he stood beside her breathing calmly and watching the other dancers. More than a few of the boys in the audience looked surprised when Amanda called Sam’s name and he shrugged off his jacket, tied on his hip scarf, and moved to center stage.

“Can a dude even belly dance?” Zach asked Becky. “I mean, I know you said Sam was in this class, but I thought it was just to, you know, pick up chicks.”

“That’s Art History 101,” Hilary said. “Now shut up and watch.”

Zach caught Jess’s eye, raised his eyebrow, but she just shrugged innocently and turned back to the stage. Sam was wearing that mesh shirt and his pants slung damnably low, and when the music kicked on, a wailing woman, a tribal beat, he started to move. Every motion was liquid-smooth, muscles sliding like steel under silk. Jess was suddenly deaf with the screams of the girls around her. The first time Jess saw Sam dance, she was so stunned by the sight of him actually dancing in public that she didn’t have the presence of mind to really appreciate how well he could dance.

Truth was, he could have been a professional dancer without a hitch. When the drums trilled, he rode the beat, hips snapping a fine-fast shimmy that, Jess knew, required immense muscle control. But his hands were always graceful, tracing smooth lines in the air, and every isolation was machine-precise. He dipped backward, lowered himself in a slow Turkish drop and then undulated his way back up to his knees, and Jess felt fire spark through her veins.

The music dissolved into nothing but a drum beat, and all eyes were on Sam as he made every beat count, from the rhythm of his hips to the heartbeat isolation of his chest, the twining of his arms and spins that would have made anyone else sick with dizziness. The drums ended, and Sam froze, so still he wasn’t even breathing.

If Jess had thought the audience went wild for her, they went rabid for Sam. He took his bows like a professional and then trotted off the stage, untying his hip scarf as he went. Moments later, he was back in his jacket and looking like a fairly ordinary young man, standing beside Jess and very deliberately focusing on Amanda’s speech, ignoring the whispers and looks from the girls in the audience. Amanda congratulated everyone who’d performed and reiterated her invitation for refreshments. Jess reached for Sam’s hand and realized he was shaking.

“Hey, you want to go for food?” she whispered.

He shook his head. “No. Let’s get out of here.” He squeezed her hand and then darted forward, dodging through the crowd with all the swiftness and stealth of an Oliver Twist street rat, and then he and Jess were in the warm summer evening, students streaming around them. Heads turned when Jess passed, still wearing her veil over her costume, and someone might have even whistled at her, but she didn’t care. The intensity in Sam’s eyes was the same as the heat in her veins. When he led her back to his room and locked the door after him, turned the deadbolt, Jess wasn’t surprised, but her heart skipped a beat anyway.

Sam kicked off his shoes and toed off his socks, nudged them under his bed. Then he shrugged off his jacket and hung it over the back of his chair. Jess hovered beside Sam’s closet, unsure of what to do with herself. When he turned to her, his eyes were fever-bright.

“Jessica,” he whispered.

She stepped toward him involuntarily, like her name was a leash and he’d tugged it.

He caught her gaze and held it and then, slowly and deliberately, peeled off that black mesh shirt. He let it fall to the floor, and Jess stared.

She’d expected the statuesque muscle definition, the sleek lines and lean strength, but the scars Sam hid beneath his clothes were –

She choked back a sob. “Sam. What happened?”

He looked down at himself. “Where do you want me to start?” His voice was soft, almost gentle.

She shook her head. “I don’t even know where to begin.”

“Maybe the beginning,” Sam said. He held out his hand, and Jess went to reach for it, hesitated. How had she never noticed the nicks and scars on his knuckles? He tugged her close, took her hand and laid it over the scar on his shoulder. “Bullet. I was nine.”

Jess’s voice stuck in her throat. What was he doing at nine years old, that he risked being shot? And then she remembered her mother’s admonitions about a big, dangerous city, drive-by shootings. She thought of Sam, who didn’t think twice about staying in a dive because he’d lived in worse places, and the way he’d reacted when Tyson and Luis shot at him with their paintball guns. She swallowed down her horror. This wasn’t about her. It was about Sam.

She looked up at him and nodded for him to continue, and he did, telling her about each jagged line, neat slice, how old he was and what gave it to him. The theme was chilling - knife, gun, animal, accident. Mostly animal. Not enough accident. Jess nodded and listened, traced each scar as he identified it, filed it away as another piece of the puzzle.

When Sam was finished, he was standing before her completely naked, miles of golden skin and silvery-pink scars, lean muscle and strong limbs. He lifted his chin and caught her gaze once more.

“This is who I am.”

Jess swallowed hard. “The scars – they stopped when you were eighteen.”

He nodded.

“What changed?”

“Everything.”

Jess looked him up and down, the man who’d stood in the doorway of the studio all those months ago and startled her with his beauty, and she smiled. Then she shrugged off her veil and stepped into his embrace.

“Whatever those scars are, they don’t matter anymore,” she said. “What matters is you, and me, and now.”

Sam buried his face in her hair. “Thank you.”

She let her clothes fall to the floor. “Any time.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set in Season 1. Case-fic. Dean POV.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Super thanks to [](http://geckoholic.livejournal.com/profile)[geckoholic](http://geckoholic.livejournal.com/) for the amazing artwork and support, and from [](http://jmsabat.livejournal.com/profile)[jmsabat](http://jmsabat.livejournal.com/) for being a beta, for my girl E for helping me come up with a title.

While Sam was at Stanford, Dean dropped by once in a while just to check on him. He’d catch Sam walking across campus between classes – a little taller, a little broader in the shoulders, but still his same geeky Sammy, gesturing wildly about some obscure text or waxing poetic about a fine point of history. Now that Sam was back in Dean’s life, in his car, in the other half of his motel room, Dean kept looking for the differences. He was playing catch-up. What parts of Sam’s life had he missed out on? So often he’d looked for the same in Sam – the same smiles, mannerisms, habits – and now he wanted to know what had changed.

Sam wasn’t nearly as patient about Dean and Dad’s music as he had been. In fact, he had some newfangled little electronic thing that looked like something out of Star Trek instead of a nice, normal Walkman or Discman. He’d put up with Zep and Metallica for a couple hours, but inevitably he’d paw the thing out of his pocket, slip on his headphones, tip his head back, and close his eyes. Sometimes he’d drum a beat on his lap, something odd and irregular. Other times he’d smile, like he was listening to something funny, although Dean doubted any of Sam’s touchy-feely girl-with-a-piano crap was funny.

One day, Dean gave in and asked. “What do you listen to on that thing?”

Sam tugged off his headphones. “Pardon?”

“You’re laughing to yourself like a nutcase. What are you listening to?”

“Sometimes I listen to music. Right now I’m listening to a stand-up comedy routine by Eddie Izzard. I have some podcasts of old-school sci-fi radio dramas – Ray Bradbury is best.” Sam thumbed the little wheel on the front of his device. “Mostly music, though. Why?”

“Like I said, you were laughing to yourself. Like a nutcase.” Dean huffed. “I think Stanford made you a little loony, Sammy.”

“It’s Sam.” He scowled and tugged the headphones back on, closed his eyes.

Every now and again, when Sam thought Dean wasn’t paying attention, he’d thumb to a particular song, close his eyes and...Dean wasn’t sure quite what it was. Maybe some kind of nervous tic? Only there was a definite pattern. Sam would pinch his middle finger and thumb on each hand in a repeating pattern, in groups of threes and fives and sevens, never even numbers. Had school turned Sam into some kind of OCD case who counted all the tiles on the ceiling or something? But as soon as Sam noticed Dean looking, he’d lapse into stillness.

One night, at a random motel on the way to another case – angry spirits, cremated bodies, the same old story – Sam was taking far too long in the shower, so Dean pawed through Sam’s jacket pockets. While Dean had been out getting carry-out pizza, Sam had been listening to something on his musical device, something that had made him blush and fumble off his headphones as soon as the door swung open. Dean glanced over his shoulder at the bathroom door; the water was still running and Sam was humming loudly, tunelessly. He’d be in there for another five minutes at least, more than long enough for Dean to find out what he’d been up to.

Or Dean had thought, right up until he got the device into his hands and tried to turn it on. After much poking and jabbing, the center button caused the screen to light up, and the screen, quite handily, told Dean what Sam had been listening to, although Maqsoum drum solo by Iskandar El Asad wasn’t all that informative. Dean slipped the headphones on and poked around some more until the music started playing, and okay, what he saw was what he got, a whole bunch of drums playing. It wasn’t like any drum solo Dean had ever taken the time to listen to. It was...ancient. Primal. Kind of funky. But not incriminating or really worth mocking Sam about. His time in California had turned him into some kind of drum circle-loving hippie, but that wasn’t too unexpected. Then Dean started counting the beats, and he realized, they matched the weird patterns Sam would pinch: three, three, three, three, five, three, one. What the hell?

The shower shut off, and Dean fumbled to turn the device off, shove it back into Sam’s jacket. When Sam came out of the bathroom clad only in a pair of jeans and toweling his hair, Dean was sitting on his bed, munching on a slice of pizza and flipping through fuzzy channels, the picture of innocence.

Three days later, after another food run – and why was Dean stuck making all the food runs? – Dean came back to the motel room and found Sam sitting at the table trying to look studious, but he was breathing hard and covered with a sheen of sweat, like he’d just run a mile as fast as he could. His musical device was hanging half out of his jacket pocket. Dean grumbled at him and told him to get into the shower, and while Sam was rinsing off, Dean checked the musical device again. Another drum solo. What was Sam doing in his spare time?  


*

A near brush with death was enough to make a man reassess his priorities. Now that Dean was no longer facing imminent heart failure or attack from a reaper on a leash, things like Sam’s weird music weren’t so important. What was important was getting to know the lovely young woman sitting beside him at the bar. Whatever jokes Dean might make about liking frisky women, truth was he liked smarter women more, women who’d jump into a conversation with guns blazing – references to cool movies, books and music, with a little trivia know-how to boot.

Dean sat down at the bar, ordered a scotch, neat, and glanced at the woman on the next barstool over. She was slender, dark-skinned and dark-haired, with the same exotic, doll-like features he saw on the women in his favorite magazines (not that he’d ever admit that aloud), and she had a copy of _Devil in the White City_ bookmarked in front of her.

“Hey,” he said.

She arched an eyebrow at him. “Hey.”

He offered a hand. “I’m Dean.”

She shook it. “I’m Sylvia.” She turned back to her drink.

He raised an eyebrow at her, leaned a little closer.

She cast him a sidelong glance. “I’m not going to go all Jeannie Bueller at the police station on you just because you have a nice leather jacket.”

Dean glanced down at himself, then shrugged, smiled guilelessly. “I don’t always wear this thing. I guess the other one’s in the laundry.” Ferris Bueller reference. Score.

“Fair enough.” Sylvia’s expression was distinctly frosty; she was way out of his league. She wore an old t-shirt and jeans, but her watch was expensive, and the diamond studs she was wearing in her ears were real.

Dean nodded at her book. “Let me guess...criminology major?”

“Actually, I’m done with school. Thank heavens.” Her expression was relieved, genuine.

“I don’t miss homework either,” Dean said. He raised his glass to her, took a sip. “So, you’re a detective, then? A federal agent of some kind? Or a psychologist?” If she was a law enforcement officer, he was courting danger, even though he and Sam had left St. Louis far behind.

“Lawyer, actually,” she said, and she looked at him expectantly.

Dean raised his eyebrows innocently. “What?

“No lawyer joke?” she asked.

“Nope.” He smiled. Truth was, he’d probably made every lawyer joke out there once he learned Sam had been a pre-law major at Stanford. Sam had made it through maybe three jokes before he’d huffed and tugged on his headphones. Dean sipped a little more scotch, eyed Sylvia. She was angled toward him, and more than once her gaze had strayed to his mouth, his shoulders, maybe even lower, so she hadn’t completely frozen him out.

He ventured further. “What kind of lawyer are you? Criminal defender?”

“Prosecutor.”

Dean swallowed hard. Maybe he was courting danger after all. Some prosecutors had a sixth sense for criminals. Hero he might have been; he knew he was a criminal in the eyes of the law. “So you deal with crimes all day, and you read about them all night? That’s kind of intense. Don’t you have fun?”

“Reading is fun,” Sylvia said evenly and sipped her drink. It was something with soda water, though whether it was a gin and tonic or a simple club soda, Dean couldn’t tell.

He leaned in, lowered his voice. “You don’t have _other_ kinds of fun?”

Sylvia shrugged. “I like to dance.”

Dean wasn’t a great dancer, but he’d watched _Dirty Dancing_ a million times, and he knew ladies appreciated a guy who could dance. “What kind of dancing?”

“Some ATS, some cabaret, a little hotpot, and admittedly some black sheep, although I can’t really claim it because I do believe in shaving,” Sylvia said, and Dean had no clue what she meant, but he nodded and smiled anyway. Maybe he could play his ignorance up to his disadvantage, ask for a little demonstration. Dean took a deep breath, ready for the plunge, and then a hand came down on his shoulder.

He jumped, turned, one hand going for his knife.

Sam said, “Hey, man, I’m going back to the motel. I’m beat. Unless you need me to stick around?”

“No, I’m cool. I’ve got Sylvia here for company.” Dean leaned in, said conspiratorially, “She’s a dancer.”

“That’s nice,” Sam said, flashing Sylvia one of his wide, dimpled smiles. He turned to go, but Dean grabbed his wrist.

“Before you go, college boy, what the hell kind of dancing involves Liza Minelli and farm animals?” He kept his voice low, too low for Sylvia to hear. Out of the corner of his eye, she looked amused.

Sam’s brow furrowed. “What?”

“She told me what kind of dancing she did, and I just want to understand.”

Sam glanced over at Sylvia. “She said she dances like Liza Minelli on a farm?” He looked on the verge of laughter.

“No. She said _cabaret_ and _black sheep_. Is that some kind of code for ballet or something else really amazingly flexible?” Dean gazed up at his brother hopefully.

Ordinarily, Sam would have been disgusted, shaken Dean off, but something else crossed his face, a mixture of embarrassment and – was that guilt? Sam glanced at Sylvia again, and his brow furrowed, like he was trying to figure something out, hopefully what kind of dancer she was. Only she was looking at Sam the same way, like he was a locked door and she was fumbling for the right key.

Sylvia said, “You’re Samir, right?”  
  
Dean blinked. Was that some kind of messed-up nickname? He rolled it around in his head. _Samir_. Not nearly as much mockery potential as _Sammy_.

Sam blushed, ducked his head. “I am. And you – you’re Shoshanna.”

Sylvia laughed, the sound bright and musical, and her smile when she wasn’t on guard was lovely. “I didn’t recognize you in civilian clothes,” she said. “It’s been a couple of years.”

Impossible. Sam was sharking in on Dean’s pick-up.

Sam scrubbed a hand through his hair. “Yeah. I didn’t recognize you at first either.”

“I was hoping to see you at Fusion Fest this year, have us another duet,” Sylvia said.

“Family emergency,” Sam said. “Broke things up. This is my brother, by the way.”

Sylvia looked Dean over with significantly less reserve. “Ah. I take it by his clueless expression at my jargon he’s a little...in the dark.”  
  
“Yeah,” Sam said. He darted a glance at Dean again, and every line of his body screamed guilt and embarrassment.

“In that case,” Sylvia said, “I won’t out you. But if we ever cross paths again, give me a call. I have Beats Antique’s new album. We could pick up the pace.” She reached into her pocket and drew out a business card, handed it to Sam. He accepted it gratefully.

“Thanks. If I ever get the chance, believe me, I will.”

“But the chances of you ever getting the chance are slim, I take it.” Sylvia smiled ruefully. “I’m glad we ran into each other again. The other girls will be jealous.”

There was only so much being in the dark Dean could take. “You two know each other?”

“We met at a festival in Fresno a while back,” Sylvia said.

“What kind of festival?” Dean asked. Some kind of weird hippie thing? A college nerd thing? She was definitely the brainy type.

Sylvia said, dryly, “The kind that involves Liza Minelli and farm animals.

Dean winced. So he hadn’t been as subtle as he’d hoped. “I’m guessing you two are overdue for a long, involved conversation I have no part in. I’ll take my drink and retreat –”

Sam put a hand on his shoulder. “No, Dean, I’m sorry. I really am tired, so I’m going back to the motel. It was good to see you again, Shoshanna.”

“Please, Sylvia when we’re civilians.” She smiled at him. “Good to see you too, Samir.”

“Sam,” he said.

“Fair enough, Sam. How long are you boys in town?” Sylvia asked.

Sam looked at Dean.

Dean shrugged. “For a couple more days, at least. Depends on how long the job lasts us.”

“Job?” Sylvia asked. “I thought you were a pre-law major.” She looked Sam up and down.

He shook his head. “Family emergency. Priorities change.”

“Well, if you decide to finish school and want a job hook-up, call me,” Sylvia said.

“Thanks,” Sam said quietly.

Dean wondered if Sam would ever have the chance to finish school, and if he did, whether he would take it.

But then Sam pasted on a bright smile and clapped Dean on the shoulder. “Catch you later.” He lifted his chin at Sylvia. “Careful – he’s smarter than he likes to let on.”

Dean swiped at him in mock-outrage, but Sam dodged, and then he headed for the door. As soon as he was out of sight, Dean turned back to Sylvia.

“So you know my little brother.”

“We’re acquaintances,” she said.

“So...you two did a duet a while back, huh? I guess Sam always was the best singer out of the three of us.” Dean leaned back against the bar and watched Sylvia carefully.

Her expression was amused but closed off again. “Nice try, but no one knows fishing for information better than a lawyer. So, Dean, you’re smarter than you look? What do you read for fun?”

He eyed her over the top of his glass of scotch. How honest did he want to be? Most nights he got by on charisma and humor, but those alone wouldn’t cut it with her. “I like Vonnegut,” he said finally.

“Interesting choice, for a soldier,” Sylvia said.

Dean blinked. “What makes you say that?”

“Well, _Slaughterhouse Five_ is considered one of the foremost anti-war novels of a generation. And you – you cased the place as soon as you came in, chose a spot where you could defend your back. You have military-neat hair while you otherwise dress like a drifter, you carry a combat knife in your boot and one in the small of your back where you probably regularly keep a gun.” Sylvia sipped her drink and gazed at him over the rim of her glass; her dark eyes were bright with fascination.

Dean swallowed hard. He was definitely courting danger. “Who are you, Sherlock Holmes?”

“Maybe. Or maybe I remember Sam told me his father was a marine and his older brother followed him into the family business.” She burst into laughter at Dean’s shocked expression, all former traces of her standoffishness melting away.

Dean was tempted to relax; that was a perfectly reasonable explanation, but she’d spotted his weapons where even the bouncer and bartender hadn’t. “That’s not all, is it?”

“No,” Sylvia said. “I was married to a guy like you – tough, smart, a little paranoid.”

Dean winced. Angry divorcée he could usually handle, but not tonight. “He end up not being your type?”

“Oh, he was totally my type,” Sylvia said. “He was also out for his morning run when some selfish bastard decided to drive home from the bar completely plastered.”

“I’m sorry,” Dean said.

Sylvia shrugged, downed the rest of her drink. “Bad things happen. I made sure the guy lost his license. It was a couple of years ago.”

“I’m still sorry,” Dean said.

Sylvia pushed her glass away, scooped up her book. “Well, now that we’ve had awkward conversation about your brother and my dead husband, how about we head back to my place and see just how flexible my dancing has made me?”

Dean blinked. All he’d thought possible to hope for after that last turn in conversation was a graceful exit, but then Sylvia stood up and turned, shimmied her hips in a manner that was possibly inhuman but utterly distracting, and Dean couldn’t do anything but stand up and follow her out of the bar.

It wasn’t until three days later, when Sam and Dean were in the car heading off to meet Dean’s ex-girlfriend, that it occurred to Dean that he had seen a hip-shimmy like Sylvia’s before, and that Sam had understood Sylvia’s obscure dance terminology. Then the case – and facing down Cassie – distracted him, and the realization fell by the wayside.

*

Dean didn’t think of Sam’s weird habits, music or otherwise, for the next while because after Cassie he had to deal with the nightmare of Sam’s visions getting worse, Sam getting kidnapped by cannibalistic hillbillies, Dad, and then stupid teenagers in Texas whose tomfoolery with the supernatural could only be cured with a heavy dose of arson. Dean still wasn’t thinking of Sam’s weird music habits when Dad sent another round of coordinates for a case in Kansas City, Missouri.

“Hey Sammy, up and at ‘em. I need you to do your geek thing.” Dean rolled out of bed and reached across the gulf between their beds, prodded Sam between the shoulder blades. “I’ll go get you some coffee. Dad’s got another job for us.”

Sam was finally starting to sleep through the night, and his sleepiness worked in Dean’s favor, because he reached for his laptop – he’d fallen asleep with it on the pillow beside his – and opened it, woke it up with a couple of deft prods of the trackpad without protest. Dean toed on his boots and shrugged on his jacket. There was a diner across the street that had donuts and coffee to go, and when he got back, Sam was hunched over the glowing screen, studying intently. He had the coordinates Dean had scribbled down and was browsing through newspaper archives.

“What have you got?” Dean held out his own black coffee just to watch Sam make a face when he took it automatically and drank. The taste of it woke him up some, and he scowled, but he didn’t spit the stuff back into the cup, which was something Dean should have thought about earlier. Instead he just plucked his girly latté from Dean’s hands and swallowed a large mouthful.

“Theater in Kansas City. Converted from an old movie house which was converted from an older theater. Bunch of suspicious injuries. Could be a poltergeist or a haunting or maybe a curse.” Sam turned the laptop around for Dean to see and reached for the donuts while Dean read.

He grinned. “Hey – it says dancers are being injured. We get to talk to dancers.”

Sam snorted. “Yeah, I don’t think you read that closely enough – it’s a troupe of folk dancers.”

“So?”

“Translation: middle-aged women looking for their inner goddess.” Sam rolled his eyes. “And you say college made me stupid.”

“Yeah, stupid. You say middle-aged women, I say cougars.” Dean grabbed the last donut before Sam could. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

*

While Dean drove, Sam was on the phone to the Building History Society in Kansas City with a story about how he was an art history student in Omaha and was writing a paper about movie palaces in the Midwest. When they were kids and Sam was pulling the research pretext, he was always better at it than Dean, but now, listening to him talk about _rococo_ and _arabesques_ and _acoustics_ , Dean wondered what Sam would have become, had he stayed in college. Right about now he’d be starting law school, wouldn’t he? Sam was smart, and when Dean had been very small, he’d learned from his mother that smart people became doctors and lawyers, and they helped save the world.

Some good doctors and lawyers did when Jessica Moore was burning on the ceiling and Sam’s world was falling apart.

“All right. Thank you,” Sam said. He hung up.

Dean reached for the radio, cranked it up just a tiny bit more. A little Kansas was only appropriate, given their destination. _All they are is dust in the wind..._

“So? Anything useful?”

“Too many deaths,” Sam said. “Actors are a melodramatic bunch. We have some suicides, some fatal accidents during runs of Macbeth, a fire, and a lynching.”

“A lynching?” Dean was kind of sketchy on his American history. Had Kansas been a slave state?

Sam nodded. “Burlesque dancer. Some of the overly-religious locals didn’t like what she was peddling.”

Dean shook his head. “That was a mighty shame.” He glanced at his watch. “Well, we have a couple of hours. You can kick back and listen to your weird comedy or whatever. I got this.” He turned the radio up the rest of the way and sang with abandon.

Sam shrugged and, to Dean’s surprise, sang along.

“Since when do you listen to Kansas?” Dean asked.

Sam raised his eyebrows. “You don’t remember drunk-dialing me on your twenty-fifth birthday and singing me _Two Cents’ Worth?_ ”

“No,” Dean said flatly. He kept his expression calm, but his mind raced. Had he really done that?

“You left, like, five messages to get the entire song,” Sam said. “I had to ask Jess what it was.” That he said her name without flinching was a good thing.

“Well, if she knew what it was, she was awesome.” Dean was unaccountably relieved when the song changed and AC/DC filled the car.

Sam nodded his agreement and kept singing along.

*

“So, what’s the pretext?” Dean asked. He really wanted some coffee and food. Nebraska had been flat and boring as hell to look at, and they’d been in the car for a long time.

“Reporters,” Sam said. “For a community events online newsletter.” He shrugged on his jacket, then turned and fished in his laptop bag for a notebook and pen.

Dean liked being a reporter; no weird outfits, lots of questions acceptable. He checked to make sure he had his EMF meter and an appropriate supply of weapons, then went to case the building. The theater certainly fit the description of a movie palace, an old brick exterior with a facade out of _1001 Arabian Nights_ , all arabesques and exotic curves and towers. There was a fire escape that led from one of the towers and down around the building, and multiple exits on the ground floor. The place had few windows, but seeing as it was a theater, that wasn’t too unusual. His EMF meter was probably getting interference from the overhead lines, so he’d have to wait till he was inside to get any useful readings. When he made it back to the car, Sam had a few test questions sketched out.

Dean gave him the lay of the land, and then they went to knock on the door. According to the sign on the glass double doors, rehearsals were in progress, and all inquiries and deliveries were to be at the west stage door. Dean couldn’t help the rush of eagerness that skidded down his spine as he rapped on the gunmetal gray. _Cougar dancers_. No way this could go wrong.

The door shrieked open a fraction of an inch. “Who are you?” The person on the other side of the door was of indeterminate gender and age.

“Reporters with the Kansas City Community Newsletter,” Sam said smoothly. “It’s an online newsletter to encourage people to come out to local cultural events.” He held up his notebook and pen and flashed his best sweet smile.

“No men allowed,” the person said. “Not unless you’re musicians or dancers.”

Okay. So was the person a woman?

“Ma’am,” Sam said, “We promise we’ll be completely respectful.”

She flicked her gaze over to Dean, looked him up and down in a way that made him feel violated and flattered all at once. “Them’s the rules. ‘S bad luck to have men around, unless they’re part of us. Like having a woman on a ship. Bad mojo.”

“Please,” Dean said, “just a couple of quick questions –”

“Bad mojo,” the woman said again.

Dean nudged Sam in the ankle, the universal signal for _more puppy eyes_.

Sam swallowed hard. “I understand. Dean, can you give me a moment alone with this nice woman?”

Dean raised his eyebrows. “Seriously?”

Sam nodded. His jaw was tight, and his expression was insistent. “Yeah. I got this.”

Dean turned and deliberately took fifteen paces away from Sam, making sure to keep his brother in his eyeline. Sam tucked his notebook and pen away and leaned in, spoke insistently to the woman. Whatever he said, Dean didn’t know, but then she was opening the door wider, and Sam was beckoning for Dean to join him.

The woman, as it turned out, wasn’t a sexy gypsy dancer. In fact, she rather looked like an escapee from a bedouin tribe, covered head to toe in black robes and veils.

She turned and led them through a maze of props, backdrops, and make-up tables. It seemed like she was the only one in the theater, which was disturbingly quiet.

Sam hung back a few steps, and Dean stayed beside him.

“Not a word,” Sam said. “No sarcastic comments, so sly comments, no flirty comments – and absolutely no laughter, okay?”

Dean cast him a sidelong glance, alarmed. For once, Sam didn’t sound whiny or indignant or embarrassed; he sounded completely serious, and possibly a little afraid.

“Okay,” he said quietly. What the hell had Sam bargained away, to get them in the door?

He at least had the frame of mind to reach into his jacket, dig out an earphone, and listen to his EMF meter.

Unlike the theater, it was noisy. Dean eased it out of his pocket, checked the readings. So this place was ghost central. What was responsible for the accidents – one ghost, many? Or was it something else entirely?

One moment, Dean was dodging dust and spiderwebs, wooden beams and painted fields, the next he was being assaulted by a riot of noise, drums and cymbals and what sounded like Xena, Warrior Princess, letting loose a battle cry.

They paused in the wings amidst heavy velvet drapes and watched.

Dean yanked the earphones away, shoved them back into his jacket, because he couldn’t hear anything anymore. But that didn’t matter, because – _score_. This wasn’t a bunch of lame middle-aged women doing gypsy line dances; this was some serious dancing sexiness. Dean hadn’t seen a live belly dancer since Widow Quince all those years ago, and at the time he’d been too full of raging hormones to really absorb just how it really looked.

It was mighty impressive, the muscle control it took to move like that.

Dean hummed appreciatively. Mmm, muscle control.

Sam kicked him in the ankle.

The woman strode out onto the stage and the music stopped. Dean realized, belatedly, there were actual musicians in a pit below the stage. Then he took the time to look beyond the stage and saw glory fallen to disrepair, red velvet seats and gold-leaf boxes and balconies, cherubs and blue skies on the ceiling, and a dusty chandelier. This place was one dose of dry ice smoke and a wailing Shakespearean monologue away from a crappy ghost flick.

Beside Dean, Sam was shrugging off his jacket and toeing off his shoes and socks, rolling his shoulders like he was about to wade into a bare-knuckle brawl. Was that what he'd bargained? Brawling as entertainment for the ladies? Some kind of blood sacrifice?

"Sam?" Dean hissed, but Sam shook his head. His jaw was tight, and he was practically trembling in place.

"We have a guest," the woman said, and when she wasn't whispering like she was auditioning for a wicked witch, she had a sensual, husky voice. "He has agreed to show us his skill in an act of good faith. I am not much for fusion, but I understand the name Samir will mean something to some of our younger sisters."

Samir. The strange nickname that girl in the bar had called Sam by all those months ago.

A pretty blonde girl dressed as a gypsy climbed out of the orchestra pit and crossed the stage. She circled Sam, looking him up and down like she was trying to decide how high a price he would fetch on an auction block.

"You weren't at Fusion Fest this year," she said.

"Had a family emergency," Sam said. He swallowed hard but kept his head held high.

The girl reached out, ran a hand up Sam's flank like he was some kind of prize horse. Dean didn't know if he was appalled or impressed. Girls weren't usually so brazen with Sam. In fact, lately he'd been skittish around girls in bars.

Sam flinched away from the touch, though the motion was so minute Dean barely saw it.

"Is what they say true? You're trained in ATS and hotpot?" the girl asked.

"And cabaret and Black Sheep," Sam said.

Dean was kind of disturbed by the reference to farm animals.

"You have no costume," the girl said. Her gaze was shrewd, assessing.

A muscle in Sam's jaw twitched. "Lost everything in a fire." He cleared his throat. "Besides, a true artist doesn't need a costume to perform, no?"

The girl pursed her lips and stepped back, gave Sam another once-over. "Someone lend him a scarf, and we will test his skills."

One of the dancers skipped over to the wings and rooted around in a bright pink duffel bag, and then she handed Sam a black fringed scarf. Dean might have thought Sam was going to fight blindfolded, but Sam's mention of an artist and performing had confused him.

And then Dean realized all the dancers were wearing scarves around their hips the same way Sam was tying the black scarf around his hips, and Dean remembered how, all those years ago, Sam had admitted that Widow Quince taught him how to dance. Did he really think a couple of slick dance-fight moves he'd learned when he was twelve would suffice?

The pretty blonde gypsy climbed back down into the orchestra pit. "We'll play you a maqsoum," she said. "You lead first."

"What the hell does that even mean?" Dean asked. "Sammy –"

"You promised. Not a sound." Sam's voice was low and vicious, desperate.

Dean nodded slowly and reached into his jacket for one of his knives; he had to be ready for anything.

Sam strode out onto the stage and took up a position on the left side near the front. The other dancers formed a square with him, and Sam straightened up, threw his shoulders back, and Dean was once again struck by how tall his little brother was.

Any moment now, this was going to end in disaster, and Dean felt bad about hitting chicks who weren't witches or monsters.

Then the drums started, and Sam started to move. Dean thought he was ready for anything, but anything didn't include Sam actually being good at dancing. It was uncanny, the way his hands and arms were graceful and the way his hips moved up and down, like he had actual girl-curved hips. He turned, undulating in a way that made Dean highly uncomfortable, especially since it looked hot on the other girls. The girls followed him, moving in smooth synchronization, and that wasn't possible, because whatever Sam was doing, he was making it up on the spot. Unless this dance was like some kind of crazy sexy secret handshake? But then Sam started walking backward, wiggling his hips all the while, and another girl took his spot, and the dance changed.

Sam kept following along, moving as smoothly as if he'd been dancing with these women for years. Dean stared, slack-jawed, at his string-bean little brother shaking his hips and dipping backward and twining his arms in time with the other girls, looking just as pretty and graceful as every last one of them. Then the dancers rotated, their square spinning till a new girl was in the upper left corner, and a new dance began. Dean realized, belatedly, they were taking turns leading the dance, and he'd been right the first time – whatever they were doing, they were making it up, but there was some freaky mojo going on, because they were all moving together like they were psychically linked. Sam led the dance one last time, and Dean was completely unsettled, because watching Sam dance all pretty like that was like listening to a cat bark or a dog meow.

Dean did know one thing, though. Sammy danced as pretty as a girl. And he was never going to hear the end of it. Suddenly Sam's being at Widow Quince's studio in Palo Alto all the time made a lot more sense. College had turned Sammy into a girl. Dean swallowed down his laughter. He was a professional, and they were on the job. He'd made Sam a promise, and he was going to honor it – until they were alone in their motel room with no angry women dancers around to hear Dean laugh.

The drums ended, and that Xena war-cry filled the room. Dean flinched at the sheer force of the sound, grip tightening on his knife, and then the women were swarming Sam, hugging him and kissing him on the cheeks and Dean was pretty sure he saw one woman make a grab at his ass.

The blonde girl climbed back out of the orchestra pit. Sam turned to face her, still standing tall, and he towered over her.

“You’re as good as they say,” she said. “We trust you, and your kin, even if he has no meaningful musical skill to contribute. You may have safe passage in these halls for the remainder of our rehearsals and our performance.”

Sam bowed slightly at the waist. The gesture was formal, almost oriental. “Thank you,” he said. “We will do our best not to disturb you.”

“The ladies will answer any questions you have,” the girl said, and the other women nodded vigorously, tittered behind their hands. They were all eyeing Sam with a newfound appreciation that Dean found frankly disturbing. Apparently they thought boys who danced like girls were hot.

Weird.

Sam trotted back to Dean to get his socks and shoes and jacket. The girl who’d let him borrow her scarf tried to tell Sam to keep it, but he shook his head and untied it, handed it back. The entire time, he avoided Dean’s gaze. Dean took a deep breath and forced himself not to smile. They were on the job.

“So,” Dean said to the owner of the pink dance bag, “do you have a moment?”

“Yes,” she said. “My name is Emily, by the way.”

“Dean. Nice to meet you.” He offered a hand, but she didn’t take it. Instead, she looked him up and down.

“Do you dance?”

“Ah, no. Not really my thing.” Dean shrugged. “Listen, we have a couple of questions for you – about some of the accidents that have happened around here.”

Emily’s expression closed off, and she cast Sam an apprehensive look, but he nodded and broke out his puppy dog smile. It was a little tense around the edges, but it did the trick.

Emily took a deep breath. “It’s been – bad luck. Rigging breaking, floorboards cracking underfoot. People falling off the stage. In one of the bathrooms Ashira tripped and cracked her head open on a sink.”

“When these accidents happened, did any of you sense anything strange – cold spots in the room, flickering lights, maybe the smell of sulfur?” Sam asked.

Emily shook her head. “I wasn’t really around for any of them, but Irina –” She nodded in the direction of the orchestra pit – “was with Ashira when her accident happened. She would know.”

The blonde girl. Dean swallowed back a grimace. “Okay. Thank you.”

Emily actually bobbed a curtsy before she went to walk away, but Sam called after her.

“One more question.”

She paused.

“I’ve noticed this place looks like it’s being fixed up in some spots. Have there been any major renovations or shifting of objects? Have you found anything old that was packed away for a long time?” Sam kept his tone gentle but professional.

“We found some old dancing scarves, but other than that, not really.”

Sam nodded. “And have any of you used the scarves?”

Emily shook her head. “Not really, only Ashira and –” Her eyes went wide. “And everyone else who had an accident.” She spun away, shouting at the other dancers. “Stop, stop, we’ve been cursed!”

Dean blinked. That wasn’t usually the reaction they got from their line of questioning. The music see-sawed to an atonal halt, and Irina clambered up onto the stage.

“What? What are you saying?”

“The scarves we found – everyone who’s used one has been hurt. We have to get rid of them – cover them in salt and burn them.” Emily lunged at one of the other dancers and started tugging at the scarf around her hips.

The other dancer made a sound of protest, and Dean perked up, ready for a cat-fight, but then the girl was wriggling out of the scarf and flinging it away. Several other dancers untied their scarves and let them drop to the floor, backing away from them as if away from writhing snakes.

“Get some salt,” Irina said, “and a lighter.”

Emily turned to them. “Thank you so much for helping us figure this out. We have it from here.” She leaned up on her toes and pressed a kiss to Sam’s cheek, then fumbled in her dance bag for a lighter.

Dean shoved his knife back into its sheath. “Well, that was officially the shortest hunt ever. Let’s go get some grub, Sam.”

He nodded, still avoiding Dean’s gaze, and started in the direction of the stage door.

“So,” Dean said when they were back in the car and cruising for a meal and a bed for the night. “That was really…easy.”

“A lot of dancers, especially those who follow the gypsy traditions, are superstitious, and they know some lore,” Sam said quietly. He stared out the window; judging by the expression on his face, he wasn’t in the mood for small talk.

That was too freakin’ bad, because Dean had been beyond well-behaved while they were in that theatre, and now he was going to make up for it.

“There’s a diner,” Sam said, pointing, and it looked like Dean’s preferred type of joint, so he pulled into the parking lot. “They were pretty sure the scarves were cursed, and if it was a ghost, maybe burning the scarves got rid of it, but we should probably stick around a couple of days just in case.”

Dean hauled himself out of the car, peered through the diner window. Several pies were on display on the front counter beneath glass bell covers. Awesome. “You think they’ll let us go to their show?”

“Sure,” Sam said. “We earned their trust and all.”

“We?” Dean couldn’t help the grin that spread over his features. “That was all you, Sammy.”

Sam flashed him a brief scowl, but it was reflexive and half-hearted at best. At least he chose the best tactical spot in the diner that wasn’t already occupied.

Once the waitress was done taking their drink orders, Dean leaned in. “You wanna dance with the girls again?”

“My performing days are over.”

Dean’s eyes lit up. “You mean you used to have actual performing days?”

That muscle in Sam’s jaw twitched again. “You promised – no laughing, no comments.”

“Not in front of the ladies – I didn’t want them to gypsy hex me. But it’s just you and me now; case is done. No need to be all on-the-job about it. So is that what you spent your free time doing in college, learning how to dance from Widow Quince? You move just like a girl. And you learned it all in three and a half years, too.” Dean waggled his eyebrows, and there, on cue, was Sam’s angry bitch-face.

Then he shook his head and sat back. “Actually, I’ve been dancing since I was twelve.”

Dean paused, did some mental math. “You mean – since that summer Widow Quince hunted with Dad?”

Sam nodded. He was unnaturally still; usually when he was embarrassed he’d fidget. The time Dean had figured out Sam lost his V-card and spent all of dinner dropping innuendos in front of Dad, Sam had shredded every napkin in the dispenser and built up a tiny mountain of fake snow on the corner of the chipped formica table.

“But – how? When? We never saw her again after that. When the hell would you have practiced? Between school and training and hunting and homework and stupid crap like mathletes and school plays –” Dean’s mind raced. How could Sam have hid something like that from his family?

Sam shrugged again, another small, non-committal motion. “Sometimes after a fight, I’d lock myself in my room, cool off. Or break into the gym at the school. When we were in motels I’d lock myself in the bathroom instead.”

Dean thought back to Sam’s adolescence, to his moodiness and secretiveness. He’d assumed it was all because of puberty and hormones. “Yeah, don’t ever admit that in front of Dad. Scratch that – don’t ever admit that in front of anyone. Hiding in the bathroom dancing like a girl is even more embarrassing than hiding in the bathroom jerking off for an hour straight.”

The bitch-face was back, this time in full force. “Dancing was the only thing that was mine, just mine – not learned from you or dad or for the hunt. It was just – never mind.”

“But – when we were kids. You used a dance move in a fight.”

“Got you off my back about it, didn’t it? And sure, Widow Quince taught me how to fight with a scimitar, because I asked her to, but really dancing? That was all mine.” He looked away.

Dean’s mind raced again. When would Widow Quince have been able to teach Sam anything? “So basically, you ran away to college to become a dancer.”

“No, I was majoring in pre-law. But yeah, when I was at school, I danced. It was fun.”

Dean snorted, shook his head. So many times he’d wanted to watch his father take Sam to task for running out like he had, give Sam a taste of what they’d been through while he was gone, but this was one thing about Sam Dad could never find out about. John Winchester was a soldier, a man’s man, and the notion of his sons doing anything remotely girly was out of the question. “Yeah, dancing like a girl is a lot of fun. Apparently to you a normal life means being useless.”

“It wasn’t useless when it got me enough money to keep you in meds and comfortable beds for a month after that ex-mafia hit man poltergeist almost ended you in Des Moines,” Sam said flatly.

Dean’s blood ran cold. He remembered that poltergeist. Dad had taken off, told Dean to finish on his own because it was a simple salt-and-burn. Turned out the ghost had rage issues even during the day, and Dean had ended up in the hospital in a coma for a few days. At the time, Sam couldn’t have been more than sixteen.

“Sam, are you telling me –”

“It was only three nights. Amanda told me not to, offered to send money, but – we’re Winchesters. We take care of ourselves, and we don’t take charity, right? I had enough of a reputation from one-night gigs that I could basically command a price.”

The next year, Sam had tussled with a banshee who’d clawed him good and laid him up for a couple of weeks, and afterward he’d been moody, withdrawn, even more than before. Looking back, Dean knew that summer after Sam's seventeenth birthday had been the beginning of the end.

“Didn’t dance for a few years after that, not till Amanda took me back.” Sam stared down at his hands.

Dean was stuck on _three nights_ , on _enough of a reputation from one-night gigs_. “What do you mean, only three nights?” He sat up straighter. “I remember when we bailed out of that hospital. You had a black eye, said you’d been caught scamming at pool.” Except he’d suspected, even in the wake of his hospital stay, there was no way Sam was good enough to scam that much money from pool games in just a few days. “And that one guy – he said he’d seen you at the bar. He helped us get out.” Horror clawed its way up his throat. “Sammy, did anyone –”

Sam shook his head. “No. Just drop it, Dean. Okay? It doesn’t matter, anyway. It’s not part of my life anymore.”

“That wasn’t what I saw back there,” Dean said quietly.

Sam spread his arms wide. “Now I’m just another hunter.”

 _That’s not true_ , Dean thought. When he hefted Sam’s duffel bag out of the back seat, it still had that copy of _1001 Arabian Nights_ Widow Quince had given him, the one that made a suspicious metallic clink whenever someone moved it. And all the weird music Sam listened to, all those times he’d been flushed from exertion and just turning off his music when Dean got back to the room – that was because he’d been dancing.

A half-remembered conversation echoed in Dean’s mind.

_“What do you have that’s all your own? Something that’s just Dean, not Dad, not hunting. Just you.”_

_“I don’t know what you want to hear, Sam.”_

_“I want to know something that’s you. All you.”_

Dancing, as silly and girly and inexplicable as it was to Dean, meant something to Sam, something important, but all that was tangled up in dancing for money and for crazy gypsy women on a hunt and –

Dean kept seeing his little brother’s face, bruised and desperate, hearing him say, _“We gotta get out of here, though – those guys are looking for me.”_

The waitress reappeared. “You boys ready to order some food?”

Dean stumbled to his feet. “Sorry. I just lost my appetite.” He started for the door.

Sam huffed. “Dean, come back. It’s not that big a deal –”

Dean headed for the nearest source of alcohol.

Hours later, Sam tracked him down at a bar, shoved him into the front of the Impala, and drove them back to a cheap motel. He dumped Dean on the bed furthest from the door, because he was in no condition to take point that night, and then he stripped down and crawled into bed.

Dean watched his little brother undress in the midnight dimness and thought of him in some sleazy strip joint, dancing all pretty while greasy men – like that man from the hospital – pawed at him and shoved money –

He stumbled for the bathroom and threw up.

A few minutes later, he flipped open his cell phone and dialed.

Widow Quince sounded disturbingly awake and alert. “Sam? Dean? Is everything all right? It’s been _months_ since you skipped town. I took care of the lease on the apartment and all your salvaged property, but none of that matters. Are you all right? Jim Murphy said –”

_“What the hell did you do to my brother?”_

Widow Quince cut herself off. “Dean? Is Sam there?”

“What did you do to him?” He kept his voice low; no need to wake Sammy for this conversation.

“I didn’t _do_ anything to him. We talked about this a long time ago. I wasn’t the reason he decided to go to college. That he ended up at my alma mater was purely coincidence –”

“You taught him how to _dance_.”

There was silence.

Dean couldn’t decide if it meant she was dead and he was glad or if he was going to have to reach through the phone and shake her until she said something.

“I guess he told you about Des Moines?”

Blood roared in Dean’s ears. “You _knew?_ ”

“I sent you money, and he never collected it, so it got sent back.”

Wait. No. That wasn’t a surprise. Sam had mentioned that. Dean swiped a hand over his face. He shouldn’t have had those Jaeger bombs.

“You – this is all your fault. You showed him how to be a –”

“Do not finish that sentence, Dean Winchester.”

He reeled back, shocked by the vitriol in her voice.

“I taught Sam how to do something he loved, something that made him happy. I taught it to him with the understanding he would always choose an audience based on mutual respect. I never taught him to cheapen himself or to be so damn stubborn that shaking it at a strip joint was better than asking for help,” Widow Quince hissed. “All that stubbornness? Yeah, he got that from you and your father. You want to blame anyone for those three nights, you blame John Winchester for walking away from a job before it was done.”

Dean scrubbed at his face again. Dad had beat himself up over that decision for years. He probably still did. “But Sam – when he dances. He looks like a girl.”

“You’ve actually seen him dance?”

“Yeah. An’ he looks like a girl.”

“No, when Sam dances, he looks like a man. Who is dancing.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.” Belly dancing was all wiggly hips and snaky arms and looking like a sexy girl.

But no – Sam was not a sexy girl. Sam was not a sexy anything. He was a boy, and no one should ever look at him like he was sexy. Ever.

“This from the man who made it his mission to get Sam laid?” Widow Quince sounded amused.

Had Dean said that out loud? He was so drunk.

“Listen to me, because I am only going to say this once." Widow Quince's tone was solemn, serious. "Dancing makes Sam happy. It’s an important part of who he is, and not just from his life at Stanford. If you continue to judge him with that sexist attitude you learned from your father, you’ll hurt him more than the words _don’t you ever come back_ ever could. You follow?”

Dean grunted.

“Tell you what – I'll send you something that will help you understand better. Study it. Ponder on it. Act on it. Now, get to bed and sober up.”

The line went dead.

Dean fell asleep.

He woke up hours later, cringing against the sunlight. He was in bed, and the shower was running behind the bathroom door. He peered at his watch and groaned. The sun must have woken him up, because he wouldn’t have woken up on his own after so little sleep.

Then he remembered his conversation with Widow Quince and slid off the bed, went over to the table where Sam’s laptop was up and running, several browser windows open for case research. Sam was already looking for a new case?

Dean logged into his email, and sure enough, there was a message from Amanda Quince, no subject, just a link. Dean glanced over his shoulder at the bathroom door. The shower was still going. He clicked on the link.

It pulled up a YouTube video. Dean squinted at the screen. The stage was dark, and some annoying digital music was playing, not fast, but with a heavy, driving beat. The lights came up amidst cheers, and Dean saw Sam wearing nothing but black pants and some shiny blue tasselled belt thing. Beside Sam was –

Dean sucked in a breath. Jessica.

She wore a skirt and midriff top the same shiny blue, and she was moving in place to the beat. This dance was – unlike anything Dean had ever seen before. He could see it had the same basic elements the dancing from the night before, the way they held their arms and certainly the way they moved their hips, but the crispness of their motions, the stop-and-start, that was almost like hip-hop street dancing he’d seen, and it was definitely less _girly_. Dean had to admire Sam’s complete mastery of his own body; of the two, he was obviously the better dancer. Dean hadn’t appreciated how tall Jessica was, and she and Sam were frankly beautiful together. They spent the entire dance trading glances across the stage, and the tension was electric. At the end, they came together, Sam folding around Jessica from behind and swaying with her, dipping with her, drawing his arms around her in an embrace that was shudderingly intimate.

The music ended, and the crowd screamed.

Dean sat back. So, that was what made Sam happy. Dancing like that. Dancing _with Jessica_. Dean couldn’t remember the last time he’d looked at anyone like that, had anyone return the favor.

Sam said, “It was our last duet.”

Dean started, twisted around to look over his shoulder.

Sam stood in the doorway of the bathroom clad in nothing but a pair of jeans, towel still around his neck.

“Sam, I –”

“About Des Moines. Nothing happened. Really. No one laid a hand on me. After my last performance at the club, some of the other dancers were jealous, tried to roll me for cash. They failed. It really was just a black eye.”

Dean nodded. “Okay. I –” He swallowed the lump in his throat. “I don’t really understand it, but I get that it makes you happy. So I won’t say anything about it ever again – and never to Dad – and you just...don’t go dancing in strip joints, deal?”

Sam smiled. “Deal.”

“Okay. My turn in the shower.”

Sam swatted him lightly with the towel. “You need it. You smell like a brewery. And when you’re done, I think I have a lead on a case.”

Later that afternoon, on the way to upstate New York to check out a string of mysterious murders, Dean turned up his music and sang along. Sam fished his music device out of his pocket and tugged on his headphones, closed his eyes and tipped his head back. If his hips wiggled to the beat of whatever he was listening to, neither of them said anything about it.

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set post-Season 3. Some dialogue straight from 4x10. Sam/Ruby. Canonical Dean death. Ruby POV.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Super thanks to [](http://geckoholic.livejournal.com/profile)[geckoholic](http://geckoholic.livejournal.com/) for the amazing artwork and support, and from [](http://jmsabat.livejournal.com/profile)[jmsabat](http://jmsabat.livejournal.com/) for being a beta, for my girl E for helping me come up with a title.

Sam was on the phone with a woman, some hunter Ruby didn’t know, arguing with her about his crazed, desperate plan.

“Dammit, I have to get him back. No, this isn’t the same as the stubbornness that got me into a fist fight with gay strippers in Des Moines – this is _family_ I’m talking about.” Sam paced back and forth in front of the Impala, anger written in every line of his body.

The woman’s voice was tinny and muffled but raised in obvious disapproval.

Ruby bit her lip. She had to find out who that woman was, stop her from giving Sam the wrong kind of hope.

“No, Amanda, it’s not enough. I tried to live a normal life, and look what happened! I’m a Winchester. We’re cursed. Normal isn’t something we get. Yeah, well, it’s not enough anymore. I’m doing this.”

Amanda said, “Sam, no –”

He hung up on her and threw himself into the driver’s seat. Ruby smiled. Perfect.

*

Ruby stood in the shadows and watched Sam scream at the crossroads demon.

“I don’t want ten years. I don’t want one year. I don’t want candy! I want to trade places with Dean.”

“No.”

“Just take me. It’s a fair trade!”

She could practically taste his desperation, honey-sweet in the air, blood in shark-infested waters. She licked her lips and smiled to herself, settled back into the shadows, comfortable in the warm skin of some secretary, and waited for him to finish up. A little more desperation, a little more fear, and he would be ripe for the plucking.

*

As it turned out, Jane Doe coma patient was an even better ride than the secretary. Jane Doe had been unconscious, sensation-free for long enough that she had no muscle memory, no instincts, and when Ruby stretched her arms over her head, wiggled her hips, it was all her. She’d asked Sam for patience and sobriety in exchange for everything she knew – which was a lie, because she was a demon – and Sam, desperate and lost without his brother, had agreed.

He’d said nothing for half an hour, packed up all his gear and started for the door, then paused. Ruby, who was looking forward to some fun time in the Impala, halted behind him, bewildered. He let his duffel bag fall to the floor, opened his laptop bag, and set his laptop back up on the table. Then he fished his battered white musical device out of his jacket pocket – it was a pod something or other, but Ruby didn’t have the host soul’s memories to help her suss out the reference – and plugged it into the laptop. A window popped up, and Ruby decided to watch. She’d learned little about using a computer during her first stint in the skinny blonde; demons had better, more fun ways of getting information. Learning a little more now might not be amiss. But Sam wasn’t researching anything. Instead, it looked like he was deleting things off of the little white pod. None of it meant anything to Ruby but he was deleting lists and lists of music. What did lists of music matter? But apparently some tribal and fusion and cabaret and drum solos had offended Sam immensely, because he deleted them all with angry stabs at the laptop keyboard. Then he opened another window and went searching for information, but nothing supernatural related, unless Metallica and AC/DC were somehow useful in magic.

Ruby couldn’t take it anymore. “What are you doing? Don’t you have something more important to be doing right now?”

A muscle in Sam’s jaw twitched. “Just loading up some of Dean’s favorite tunes. For the road.”

Ruby had watched the Impala cruise by in the night, heard the wailing guitars spilling from its open windows. Usually Sam looked annoyed at Dean’s taste in music. But now Dean was dead, and apparently Sam wanted to remember Dean by listening to his annoying music. Whatever. It would keep him focused on the fight to find Lilith. As long as he was ready to kill her after the first sixty-five seals had been broken, he could listen to whatever he wanted.

“What about the music you’re deleting?” Ruby wondered if _Turkish Solo 2_ would be important down the road.

“It doesn’t matter anymore,” Sam said.

Ruby prodded the screen. “What’s this called here?”

Sam arched an eyebrow at her. “You mean the search bar?”

“What’s it for?”

Sam actually looked briefly amused before that terrible blankness descended over his features once more. “You don’t know how to use a computer?”

“Hi, I’m a demon, not Bill Gates.”

“And yet you can make Bill Gates references.”

Sam explained, with rather more patience than Ruby expected, what he was doing and why he was doing it and how his laptop worked. Ruby learned more about Dean’s favorite music than she would have cared to, but Sam finished up soon enough, and then they were on the road.

“You have a destination in mind?” Sam asked, guiding the Impala out of the motel parking lot.

“A place where we can train – and hold a demon for a while,” Ruby said.

“Okay. I know a place. We need to make a stop on the way.”

Sam drove all night, music turned up loud and singing along to Bon Jovi and Led Zeppelin and Georgia Satellite. Ruby tuned him out, stared out the window and considered her plan. She needed Sam to trust her so he would depend on her, and once he was dependent on her, she would have unshakeable control over him. She needed him _addicted_ to her.

Once the current song ended and Sam stopped singing about waking up in the morning and having himself a beer – was the Winchester alcoholism catching or just genetic? – something entirely unexpected filled the car. Drums, tribal and primal, familiar in a way Ruby hadn’t heard since – since her days as a mortal. Drums to dance to. She could still remember the sharp lift and drop of her hips, the way her arms moved like snakes, how she bewitched men and women alike beside a campfire. They thought she danced for money or lust; she danced for control, and when one of the hapless fools followed her out to the trees, she thanked her mother for teaching her one useful skill, and she used her father’s hunting skills for the rest. Fresh hearts made for powerful magic, and they were difficult to come by back in the day. Now morgues and hospitals had them all in one convenient location.

Sam swore and jabbed at his white music pod, and the song cut off, abruptly turning into faint acoustic guitar riffs. “Must have missed one,” he muttered. “I’ll delete it later.”

So the music he’d been deleting off his pod had been dance music. Why did he even have dance music in the first place?

*

Sam’s stop was, predictably, a wooded grove just outside Pontiac, Illinois. He pulled the Impala off the road and popped the trunk, propped it open with a shotgun. He dug a book out of his duffel bag and grabbed a shovel, and he started hiking into the trees. Ruby followed, curious. The book was an old, leather-bound copy of _1001 Arabian Nights_ with the title tooled in gold leaf on the cover. The book was, she suspected, more than just the collection of stories, because it made a muffled metallic clanking sound as Sam walked. There must have been something hidden in the hollowed-out pages. After what seemed like too long a waste of time, Sam paused beside a wooden cross made of nailed-together fence pickets. He stared at it for a long moment. It had no name on it, but there was no doubt as to who was laid beneath. Sam took a deep breath and skirted around the cross, set the book down, and started digging. He didn’t bury the book very deep. After it was in the ground, he knelt and smoothed the damp, dark dirt down with his bare hands.

“Hey, Dean,” he said quietly. “You were smarter, all those years ago. The one thing you had that was just you, not Dad, not the hunt – that was being my brother. And I thought the one thing that belonged to me was – something else. But I was wrong, and I’m sorry. The only thing that matters more than Dad, than the hunt, than this life – it’s you. And if I can’t get you back, then I can at least end the bitch who ended you.”

Ruby managed to keep a straight face at Sam’s confession. It was trite and sappy and probably well-intentioned, but by the time she was done with him the only thing that would matter more to him than the hunt and The Life would be her and the power he would drink from her.

Sam eased himself to his feet, dusted the dirt off his hands. “I’m ready.”

Ruby smiled.

*

She never did find out why Sam had that dance music. It was the last thing she realized before her own blade plunged into her abdomen and she was no more.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set post-Season 5. Canonical Sam death. Dean/Lisa. Lisa POV.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Super thanks to [](http://geckoholic.livejournal.com/profile)[geckoholic](http://geckoholic.livejournal.com/) for the amazing artwork and support, and from [](http://jmsabat.livejournal.com/profile)[jmsabat](http://jmsabat.livejournal.com/) for being a beta, for my girl E for helping me come up with a title.

When Dean Winchester had showed up on Lisa's doorstep three months ago, he looked like he was shaking apart from the inside out. All Lisa had been able to do was gather him in her arms and hold him tight, let him know he wasn't alone. For the first two months he spoke very little, slept erratically, and Lisa found a worrying number of empty liquor bottles scattered through the rooms Dean liked to hole up in. Since she never caught him drinking and Ben seemed not to have noticed it either, she said nothing to Dean, but she watched him warily, waiting. For what, she wasn't sure. Waiting to see if he would break, maybe, or if he would wake back up to the rest of the world.

At first, Dean, didn't sleep in her room. She'd offered comfort and intimacy without requiring a promise of commitment, but he wasn't kidding when he said he only needed four hours a night. He spent most of those four hours tossing and turning and, when he thought no one else could hear, sobbing his brother's name amidst a litany of apologies.

Lisa knew that whatever Dean had been up to before he'd shown up on her doorstep to cash in his rain check on that beer, it had been much bigger than changelings. She'd seen the news, the storms and earthquakes, freak temperature zones, and even if she wasn't much for reading the Bible and going to church, she was sure it was the end of the world. In the days after Dean's arrival, when he tried to sleep through screaming nightmares, all the freak weather occurrences just stopped.

And Lisa knew, deep in her gut, Dean was the one who'd stopped it all, and it had cost him his brother.

*

Dean had been living at the Braeden house two months, drifting through the days as a shadow of his former self, before Lisa finally believed him when he said he was okay. They sat down to dinner, and Dean told her he had a job lined up. He'd arranged for work papers, a new driver's license – because Dean Winchester was legally dead – and he'd talked to a local contractor. First thing Monday morning, he was going to work.

He looked alive, had a light in his eyes that hadn't been there before, and Lisa smiled.

That night he slept beside her, a warm, comforting presence. If Dean knew Lisa had noticed the jar of holy water and the sawed off shotgun he kept within arm's reach, he didn't mention it, and neither did she. Ben, who had sensed the somber air that settled over the house, lit up again, and he was overjoyed when Dean offered to show him how to fix the beloved Impala.

For the next few weeks, Dean continued sleeping in Lisa's bed, but he was never more intimate than a hug or a chaste kiss on the cheek. She didn't mind, because she knew Dean was still grieving the loss of his brother, the brother whose name he never said when he was awake.

All Lisa knew about Dean's brother was that his name was Sam, and he was in a cage, and Dean was sorry.

Lisa couldn't decide if it would be better or worse for the cage to be metaphorical instead of literal.

*

The fourth week of Dean sleeping beside her like little more than a college roommate left Lisa unable to sleep at all. She lay awake in the darkness, listening to his shallow breathing, and wondered who he was in her life, besides a housemate. Now that he had a steady construction job, he was contributing to the upkeep of the household, and he'd spend time with Ben working on cars or playing video games, but he still seemed distant. During conversations his gaze drifted, and he didn't muster much enthusiasm about what to do on the weekends.

Lisa heard Dean's breathing pattern change, felt him shift. She lay there and listened to him listening to her, and then he eased out of the bed, almost soundless. Most days he still surprised her by how stealthily he moved. Then again, he'd been a hunter, so it was probably habit.

Dean left the room, and Lisa waited for a few moments. He wasn't going to the bathroom, or downstairs to the kitchen to get a drink of water. Was he going hunting? Or maybe he was checking the doors again. He did that almost compulsively. One month into his stay Lisa found him painting salt lines into the window sills and doorways and laying devil traps under her carpets. Now that she had some inkling of what lurked out there in the night, she was grateful for the protection, but having it installed at two a.m. was a little startling.

Several minutes passed, enough for Dean to have checked the whole house and then some, but he didn't come back to bed. Lisa bit her lip. She'd done her best not to intrude or ask questions that might bring up painful memories, but if Dean was going to hurt himself or someone else or drink himself to sleep – enough was enough.

Lisa threw aside the blankets and scooped up her bathrobe, cinched it closed at her waist and tip-toed out of the bedroom. Down the hall, she could see the faint glow of a computer monitor coming from the office. Was Dean doing hunting research? Lisa hovered beside the doorway, listening. Dean was on the phone with someone.

"What am I doing up so late? What are _you_ doing up so late?" Dean's tone was light, playful. "Okay, fine, I'll stop being all formal and I'll start calling you Amanda. Now, are you going to send the video or not? Yes, I'll still respect you in the morning. Now send the link already. I want to see some dancing."

Lisa's throat closed. Dean was watching porn? She knew men did that sort of thing, figured it probably happened on the road with his job or whatever, but she didn't want Ben finding it. And she didn't want to think this was the reason Dean had been barely more intimate than a teenager with his very first girlfriend. Lisa had no illusions or self-doubts about how attractive she was; she knew her yoga and health habits kept her looking trim and fit, and she'd never felt the need to really compete for a man's attention before. She'd always shrugged it off when other women complained about their husbands watching porn, figured as long as the guy wasn't cheating then there was nothing to worry about. But the realization that, for all her understanding and patience, she could never be what Dean wanted, made it suddenly hard to breathe.

Dean ended his conversation with Amanda, and Lisa heard him clicking the mouse. Moments later, music started up, and Lisa frowned. It didn't sound like typical stripper music. Instead, it sounded like the weird industrial-techno stuff the local high schoolers listened to when they were posing at being ravers. Lisa bit her lip, waiting for the inevitable moans of pleasure, the slick sounds of flesh on flesh, but instead Dean was disturbingly silent. Then, apropos of nothing, he laughed. Softly, like he was trying to contain vast mirth, but he was hicupping like he was seeing the funniest thing in the world.

Lisa could hear, beneath the music, cheers and hollers and whistles.

What _was_ Dean watching?

"Man," Dean murmured to himself, "I am so glad Dad's dead, because if he ever saw this, he'd kill you. But I guess that doesn't matter, because you're dead too, and all that's left is me. And this embarrassing collection of videos. Good thing all the girls you danced with are hot. Even Amanda, for a gal her age."

Now Lisa was even more confused. But it didn't sound like Dean was watching porn or doing hunting research or getting himself blind drunk, so even if she didn't understand what he was doing, she wasn't very worried.

Lisa went back to bed. Dean joined her fifteen minutes later, and he settled into a deep sleep.

*

The next day, when Dean was at work and Ben was at school, Lisa booted up the computer and checked the browser history. Dean hadn't bothered to clear it. He'd been watching YouTube videos from one user – Black Phoenix. Lisa clicked on the most recent one watched and was surprised when it came up as a collaboration with Black Phoenix Studios and the Film and Photography Program at, of all places, Stanford University. Lisa hadn't been kidding when she told Dean she had a type, and Ivy League alumnus wasn't it. This time around, Lisa recognized the music, and she cursed herself for not recognizing it sooner. When she'd taught yoga full time, she'd shared her space with a troupe of belly dancers, a dozen serious-faced girls in heavy black makeup who talked about motion and sensuality and were proud of remixing their own music, which was what she was hearing now, a curious blend of electronica and ethnic tribal sounds. The video was beautifully done, a half-story about toys come to life as dancers, four women and one man, all slender and beautiful, graceful and whimsical.

Lisa smiled and settled back, enjoying the shift of limbs and the loveliness of human bodies. It wasn't a stretch of the imagination to call the man the main focus of the video, for there were several segments of him alone dancing with a red and orange veil, making it float and shimmer in the air. The entire piece was fantastical, and Lisa felt like she'd witnessed a little extra beauty in her day for having watched it, but she was still confused as to why Dean might have been watching it.

The next video was another collaboration with a film student and Black Phoenix dance studios, and it was less with the dancing and more with the abstract artistry. More of the electronic-tribal music rang in the background, but the video seemed to be entirely about faces and hands. Some of the women looked familiar from the previous video, but they were all wearing heavy eye make-up and piercings and jeweled Indian bindis. The camera was focused on their eyes and hands. The effect was startlingly pretty, and Lisa felt a twinge of guilt for assuming Dean was all classic rock and cars. If he had an artistic, sensitive side, she was glad, even if he felt like he needed to hide it. Maybe he would teach some of it to Ben, who was more and more like Dean every day.

Halfway through the video, another face flickered half -in, half out of focus, and after a moment Lisa realized it must have been the man from the previous video, only up close, he was just a boy. He had a sharp jaw line and high cheekbones. He had soft-looking dark hair, and his eyes were dark green, lined with kohl, and had an almost vulpine tilt to them. He twined his hands in front of the camera, and several pairs of other hands twined around him, fluttering but not quite touching, and he closed his eyes, tipped his head back.

Something about the boy was familiar, but Lisa couldn't quite place it. She leaned in, studying him intently whenever she caught glimpses of him, but they were always too brief, and she suspected the make-up was throwing her off.

The video ended with a splash title about Black Phoenix Studios. Lisa scrolled down through the comments, most of which were from other dancers admiring the technique or inquiring after the music used. None of it told her why Dean had been watching in the middle of the night.

Laughter startled her, and she scrolled back up to the video itself. There, three women and a boy were huddled together in front of the camera, laughing and waving. They wore ordinary clothes and no make-up, and Lisa was hard-pressed to believe the boy with the fluffy dark hair and the wide, dimpled smile was the solemn, sensual creature she'd seen moments before.

"Hi, I'm Jess," the blonde girl said, "and this is Samir."

The other two women waved. "I'm Black Phoenix, and this is my homegirl Shoshanna. If you're ever in Palo Alto, check us out, and be sure to catch our performances at a fusion festival near you."

Samir.

Sam.

Lisa could see it now – the boy was Dean's younger brother, Sam. Lisa had glimpsed him only briefly, two years before, when Dean was bringing Ben back home after the whole crazy changeling incident. Sam had lingered near the car, muttered something about giving them all a moment, and she hadn't seen him again. In Lisa's memory, he'd been much bigger and broader, but then if the date on this video was accurate, Sam had probably only been about nineteen or twenty when it was filmed.

Dean's comments from the night before made much more sense. Given what little Lisa knew about Dean's father, a marine and a fearsome hunter in his own right, she couldn't imagine him being proud of how Sam danced, and he danced beautifully.

Lisa clicked to the next video in the list, this one a solo by just Samir, and she settled in to watch with newfound understanding. There were a fair number of videos on Black Phoenix's channel that featured Sam, some music videos, some live performances, some workshop videos where he knelt in the corner and played a drum. Did Dean dance at all? Lisa wouldn't have suspected it of him, not in a hundred years.

"No," Dean said. "I don't dance."

Lisa yelped. She spun around. Dean stood in the doorway, hard hat in hand, clothes covered in sawdust. His expression was dangerously blank.

"Dad was never very sentimental, and he wasn't much for pictures. All I have left of my brother is a handful of faded photographs and those videos."

Lisa fumbled to pause YouTube.

"As far as the rest of the world is concerned, Sam was a lot of things – smart, stubborn, proud, a little stupid sometimes. Ask any hunter, and Sam was a go-to guy for lore and rituals. He was the idiot who started the apocalypse, and he was the man who ended it." The corners of Dean's mouth curved up, but the light in his eyes was shattered. "Dancing made that crazy kid happy, so I guess those are the best memories to have – the ones where he's happy."

Lisa bit her lip. "I didn't mean to pry."

Dean shook his head. "No. It's good. You probably appreciate his dancing better than I ever could. He probably would've loved to talk to you about it."

Lisa was on her feet and across the room, tugging Dean into her arms, feeling him shake apart all over again. When it was done, Dean went to wash up for dinner, and Lisa shut the computer down. She never mentioned the videos again, and if Dean got up in the middle of the night to watch what was left of his brother and laugh or cry, that was all right.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set post-Season 7. Sam POV.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Super thanks to [](http://geckoholic.livejournal.com/profile)[geckoholic](http://geckoholic.livejournal.com/) for the amazing artwork and support, and from [](http://jmsabat.livejournal.com/profile)[jmsabat](http://jmsabat.livejournal.com/) for being a beta, for my girl E for helping me come up with a title.

Cas and Dean were gone. Dean did the deed, stabbed the monster, and there was an explosion, and then they were...gone.

First things first – get the hell out of Roman Enterprises before the authorities arrived. Sam ran, found the Impala, miraculously intact after what Meg had done to it, but she was nowhere to be found. Neither was Kevin. Irrelevant. He had to get away, find a safe place and hunker down, wait till the storm blew over and hope Dean and Cas found him.

Sam drove till the car was almost out of gas, refilled, and kept driving. He found a motel in a town whose name he didn’t even know and he booked a room. He pulled the Impala around to his room and cut the engine, stared at the door. He’d asked for a room with two queens, because he might have a roommate any moment now.

He reached across the front seat and fumbled under the passenger side for the emergency bottle of whiskey Dean kept around. He unscrewed the top with hands that _were not shaking_ and took a deep pull. Then another. A third one was all he needed before he got up the nerve to go into that empty room, knowing there would be no one beside him.

He ended up sitting the car for hours, dazed and maybe drunk while the shadows around him shortened, then lengthened. Finally, he hauled himself and his duffel bag out of the car, unlocked the door, and stumbled into the room. He sat on the edge of the bed nearest the door, confused, and after a moment he remembered. First things first: salt all the doors and windows. Then he opened Dad’s journal and Bobby’s journal and left messages for everyone who was still alive – whether they’d parted on friendly terms or not – and informed them the Leviathan problem was over and he needed to know what happened when a human and an angel were caught in a Leviathan King explosion. He got voicemail all thirty-two times.

Two hours later, Sam stared down at his phone. The battery was almost dead, but he scrolled through his contact list for anyone he’d missed.

Amanda’s number was where it had always been. He’d refused to talk to her after they argued about his trying to make a crossroads deal to free Dean from hell, and then after he’d sprung Lucifer out of his cage, he hadn’t dared try to contact other hunters besides Bobby, especially not after that disastrous encounter with Tim and his hunting crew in Oklahoma. He was pretty sure his soulless self hadn’t contacted her either, and then when the Leviathans tried to paint him and Dean as spree killers, it was better off if the world in general thought he was dead.

But Amanda had been an amazing hunter, full of obscure knowledge and lore not even Bobby or Pastor Jim knew. Maybe she would have an answer. Sam bit his lip, thumbed her number.

It rang once, twice, three times, and then a man said, “Who is this?”

“Sam. I’m an old friend of Amanda’s.” She’d been more than a friend to him; she’d been a teacher and a mentor. She’d deserved better than his guilt-ridden silence after all these years.

The man snorted. “Not a very good friend, if you haven’t heard the news.”

“News?” Dread curled in the pit of Sam’s stomach.

“My sister-in-law is dead,” the man said.

A sob rose in Sam’s throat, unbidden. He swallowed it down. “How?”

“An accident.”

“Like a car accident or a – a _hunting_ accident?”

“Oh. You’re one of _those_ old friends. Hunting. Pack of skinwalkers at the Ranch in Utah. She got outnumbered. Went out with her boots on.”

“That sounds like Amanda,” Sam said faintly.

“Hey.” There was a rustling sound. “You wouldn’t happen to be Sam Winchester, would you?”

“Why?”

“Amanda was a lawyer, and she left a will with a lot of weird stuff. One of the items we never got sorted out was a computer file, compressed and encoded, for a Sam Winchester.”

“That’s me,” he said cautiously. His heart leapt. Maybe this was a collection of lore. He could have the answer any moment now. “Do you need me to come pick it up?”

“Actually, my instructions were to email the file to you.”

“Perfect.” Sam rattled off one of his many burner email addresses. Thanks to his smartphone, he could have the information in seconds. “Hey listen, who did Amanda leave all her research books to?”

“A cousin down in Texas,” the man said. “I can give you the address, but first you have to confirm you’re Sam Winchester.”

“Okay.” His mind raced. What kind of quiz would Amanda have left for him?

There was more rustling, like the man was rifling through papers. “If you’re Sam Winchester, this will make sense to you, because it makes no sense to me. Where’s the accent in a, uh, m-a-q-s-o-u-m?”

Sam closed his eyes. A maqsoum. He hadn’t thought of dancing in years, not since he’d buried his zills beside Dean’s grave in Illinois. He hummed under his breath, counted in his head. “The accent is on the second beat.”

“Correct. Whatever that means.” The man rattled off a set of coordinates and told Sam he’d email the file as soon as he could figure out how. Sam hadn’t unpacked, so he threw his bag into the back seat of the Impala and drove around to the front office to check out, hit the road, and picked the first highway that would take him toward Texas.

He cranked up the volume on his phone so he would hear as soon as someone called back or an email landed in his inbox, but for hours there was nothing. He kept driving, because whoever had Amanda’s books might have an answer, too. As an afterthought, Sam jacked his phone into the car stereo – he’d kept an adapter for his own car and just never told Dean – and cranked up some music. For old time’s sake, he turned on the playlist he’d labeled _Dean_ all those years ago, after Dean’s trip down to Hell. He’d never told Dean about the playlist for obvious reasons, but once Dean was back in the driver’s seat, if he listened to it, maybe he’d let Sam choose the music once in a while after all.

Sam was in Kermit, Texas, when he heard it, the ping of an incoming email. He scrambled to unlock his phone, see the message, but then Amanda’s voice filled the car.

“Hey, Sam. I hope it’s Sam listening to this, and not someone else, because then this will be hard to explain.” She laughed, and Sam’s heart twisted in his chest. He hadn’t heard that sound in years.

“I figured I’d leave you some of my most important knowledge, including all the videos I sent you growing up, the videos you sent back, and all my footage from your days at Stanford. I left you some lore, too, because you need to have something legitimate if Dean asks what you got for Nerd Christmas, but what matters most is the times you were happy, times you should remember when the going gets tough. So listen, Sam Winchester, and remember.”

The crystalline notes that filled the car were from his first duet with Amanda all those years ago, when he was twelve and hesitant about dancing at all. She’d handed him a plain black scarf, told him how to stand, and turned on this music, guided him through a simple routine that was, in truth, a drill, measures of every basic motion he needed to know to become a dancer.

Tears welled in his eyes, and he scrubbed them away furiously. Dean would laugh if he could see Sam right now.

Sam didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. After all these years, Amanda remembered their very first dance.

Unbidden, he started drumming the rhythm of the song on the steering wheel. He should pick up dancing again, get himself centered. It would be something to do when he needed a break from researching ways to find Dean and Cas. Sam took a deep breath, closed his eyes. He could see Amanda, laughing and playful as she spun across the studio floor, and Jess, clapping her hands and trying to follow along. He could see Dean at sixteen, laughing and waggling his hips in a poor imitation of Amanda’s dancing. He could see himself at sixteen, alone on a darkened stage with nothing but a coin belt for dignity and determined to do what it took to make Dean better. He could see Ruby as he lay awake beside her while she drowsed and he missed the ringing of zills and the zaghareet of dancer camaraderie and his brother snoring in the other bed. He could remember all those moments when what he wanted, more than demon blood, more than anything but keeping Dean alive, was to get up and move.

But Dean was gone, and so was Jess. Bobby was gone, and Pastor Jim too. And finally, so was Amanda. For the first time in his entire life, Sam Winchester was completely alone.

He opened his eyes.

There was a dog in the middle of the road.

He slammed on the breaks. The music cut off.


End file.
